THE  ROBERT   E.  COWAN  COLLECTION 

PRESKNTED    TO   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CRLIFORNIR 


C.  P.  HUNTINGTON 

JUNE,  18Q7. 

Recession  Noy'O/OS      Class  No^S^^ 


C3%9 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bundleofsaintssiOOcartrich 


f- 


** 


A    BUNDLE 


Saints  and  Sinners. 


By 


IIAKin-  A.  CARTWRK^^HT. 


I'UIU.ISHED    KOK    1HH    AUTHOR    BY 

A.    L.    BANCROFT    AND   COMPANY, 

San  Francisco. 

1879. 


A   BUNDLE 


OF 


Saints  and  Sinners 


HARRY  A.  CARTWRIGHT. 


PUBLISHED    FOR   THE   AUTHOR    BV 

A.    L.    BANCROFT   AND   COMPANY 

San  Francisco. 
1879. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1879, 

By  harry  a.  CARTWRIGHT, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


-^fe 


-^-e:^!^:^'^- 


DEDICATION. 

To  her  (how  slight  the  token  seems) 
Who  is  the  mistress  of  my  dreams. 
Not  tides  to  seas,  not  flowers  to  spring, 
Nor  fancied  sound  of  angel's  wing 
To  dying  virtue,  are  more  meet, 
Than  that  I  here  should  lowly  greet 
One  who  has  been,  and  still  must  be, 
A  spell,  a  power,  a  charm  to  me. 


.^1^ 


^I^'^' 


m>=^' 


CONTENTS. 


ARBY  ABBEY, 
LOVE'S  FATALITY, 


TAGE. 

9 

35 

THE  TRUE  HISTORY  OF  ST.  ALEJO,          -           -           .           -  55 

SANTA  MARINA, go 

SANTA  SINFOROSA, 98 

RETRIBUTION, 105 

DEATH  IN  LIFE, 108 

CHANGE 


109 

THE  FUTURE, „o 

CONSTANTIA, ,„ 

LEFT, „^ 

SYLVAN  DEITIES, „8 

HER  KISS,    .           . jj8 

OCTOBER, „9 

THE  WITHERED  LEAVES, 121 

THE  RIVULET, 122 

THERE. „2 

SAINT  PEDRO  OF  LUXEMBURG  AND  HIS  MIRACLE.     .           .  123 


130 


133 


HER  GRAVE, 

THE  PORTRAIT. 

NANCY, '    .  .  .  -  133 

LIKE  THE  SONGS, 134 

THE  HOLIDAY, 135 

A  GLEAM  FROM  THE  PAST, 142 

LUCY, 143 

MARY 144 


8  Contents. 

PAGE. 

THE  LETTERS. -  -  -  i45 

TO  , 147 

BESSIE, ^^^7 

HELENA, '*^ 

THE  WANDERERS, ^*9 

TO  MARY, ^51 

TO  EMILY, ^52 

INEVITABLE, ^52 

TO  NANCY, ^53 

THE  WORD  FAREWELL, ^53 

A  SCENE  OF  HORROR, ^55 

ALL-SOULS, .  -  157 


A    BUNDLE 


OF 


Saints  and  Sinners. 


ARBY  ABBEY 

THE  morning  breaks,  and  splendors  fall 
On  Arby's  Abbey,  tower  and  hall. 
Defying  age,  it  seems  to  shine 
A  thing  of  earth,  yet  half  divine. 
Dower'd  with  its  wealth  of  untold  years, 
It  scarce  the  work  of  man  appears. 
As  storm  and  sunshine  round  it  play, 
And  winters  lose  themselves  in  May, 
And  centuries  close  where  centuries  meet, 
Till  like  dead  leaves  they  strew  its  feet. 
It  stands  a  history,  writ  in  stone, 
Of  men  and  ages  past  and  gone. 

Palmer,  pilgrim,  minstrel  here 
Have -stayed  to  rest  and  share  its  cheer; 
And  the  knight  hath  bowed  his  trusted  spear, 
And  the  proud  king  knelt  in  guilty  fear, 

As  its  holy  bell. 

Like  a  warning  knell. 
On  heart  and  ear  all  solemn  fell, 
Calling  the  living  souls  around, 


lO  Ardy  Abbey. 

Within  and  without  its  sacred  ground, 

To  the  matin  song,  or  the  vesper  hymn 

That  ever  rose  in  those  twiHghts  dim, 

And  Hke  incense  wafted  men's  thoughts  away 

From  regions  of  time  and  from  forms  of  clay. 

Not  less  to-day,  as  the  fancy  may  deem. 

It  smiles  or  it  frowns  at  the  storm  or  the  beam, 

With  nothing  of  change  in  its  solid  stone 

To  tell  of  decay  or  the  years  that  have  flown; 

There  is  little  of  change  in  the  scene  or  the  place, 

But  a  change  has  come  in  the  living  race. 

The  monks  no  more,  with  feet  all  bare 
And  cowl  and  hood,  are  seen  to  pace 

From  hall  to  hall,  or  pause  in  prayer 
In  holy  niche  with  saddened  face. 
And  since  their  time  have  many  been 
Called  owners  of  the  place  and  scene; 
And  in  their  little  day,  I  ween. 
Have  glowed  with  pride  and  passed  away 
To  sleep  in  death  and  mix  with  clay; 
While  still  these  stones  so  firmly  piled 
On  the  next  heir  have  frown'd  or  smiled. 
And  still  the  bell's  loud  brazen  tongue 
With  varying  purpose  hath  been  rung 
As  death  or  life  or  joy  or  grief 
Or  victory  crowned  the  reigning  chief. 

So  many  have  called  the  place  their  own 
It  scarce  would  yield  to  each  a  stone; 
And  deep  life-histories  round  it  grown. 
Might  serve  as  morals  to  human  power, 
Or  while  away  an  idle  hour 
With  profit,  if  man  could  profit  by  aught 
Not  by  his  own  experience  taught. 


Arby  Abbey.  1 1 


But  few  will  heed  what  dead  men  teach, 
And  all  in  vain  to  youth  they  preach 
From  graves  where  passion  buried  li^, 
And  grief  that  darken'd  life's  fair  skies. 
Their  heirs  with  youth's  full  tide  again 
Tread  the  same  path  to  find  it  vain, 
And  end  themselves,  like  that  first  one, 
With  years  all  spent  and  life  undone. 
But,  vain  or  not,  one  tale  at  least 

Its  archives  shall  give  up  to  light — 
This  record  blotted,  stained  and  creased, 

Tempts  wonder  to  the  fullest  height. 


The  Male  Line's  Last  Heir. 
L 

A  history  brief  and  sad,  and  all  as  vain 

As  the  poor  moth  that  falls  by  its  own  thirst 

For  things  that  glitter,  did  he  leave  to  stain 
The  annals  of  a  race  who  still  were  first 
In  valor  and  in  truth,  and  not  the  worst 

Was  his  own  fall.     He  came  the  last  male  heir, 
And  in  his  youth  all  tenderly  was  nursed 

By  one  whose  child,  as  true  as  she  was  fair, 

Would  but  for  sex  have  filled  the  high  ancestral  chair. 

Her  did  he  woo  and  win,  and  then  appeared 

To  live  but  in  the  light  of  her  clear  eyes; 
And  time  and  knowledge  still  the  more  endeared 

Her  to  all  hearts  who  knew  her  worth  to  prize. 

This  daughter  of  a  warrior  whom  surprise 
Or  fear  or  chance  could  never  start  or  shame; 

She  was  her  father's  child,  in  woman's  guise; 
A  noble  spirit,  free  from  speck  or  blame — 
Ev^n  the  roughest  tongue  was  gentle  with  her  name. 


1 2  Arby  Abbey. 

And  great  content  among  their  followers  grew 

That  they  should  wed.     A  wrong  to  them  it  seemed 

That  she  who  from  their  leader  lineage  drew 
Should  all  resign  to  one  they  scarcely  deemed 
Of  the  same  race  or  name,  and  fierce  eyes  gleamed — 

A  word  had  waked  resistance  to  his  power. 

Of  her  by  day  and  night  they,  loving,  dreamed, 

She  was  to  their  rough  minds  a  sacred  flower, 

A  beauty  and  a  pride,  a  kind  of  heavenly  dower. 

Worshipped  and  reverenced  like  some  holy  gift, 
From  rose-lipped  prattler  to  her  latest  teen. 

Her  smile,  her  word,  had  all  the  power  to  lift 
The  gloomiest  spirit  till  a  smile  serene 
Answered  her  own;  and  by  her  gracious  mien 

And  heart  that  trusted — never  there  in  vain — 
All  still  were  true  as  truth.     Wherever  seen 

Her  presence  fell  like  sunshine  or  soft  rain, 

Hope  wore  its  richest  hue,  and  grief  relaxed  its  strain. 

And  all  things  prospered.     He,  their  lord,  to  them 

No  longer  alien,  pledged  by  such  strong  bands, 
Saw  duty  sparkle  bright  as  eastern  gem 

In  eyes  that  told  of  ready  hearts  and  hands 

Well  able  to  defend  or  house  or  lands 
In  case  of  war  or  rapine.     For  the  time 

Was  full  of  danger;  armed  and  lawless  bands 
Who  counted  pillage  duty  not  a  crime. 
And  neighboring  chiefs  uprose;  might  was  the  magic  rhyme 

That  made  or  kept  the  palace  and  the  plain, 
Corn,  cattle,  wealth  safe  to  its  owner's  need. 

War  was  man's  pastime,  albeit  play'd  for  gain — 
Since  lower  minds  made  glory  ser\'e  their  greed — 
And  many  a  raid  and  many  a  cruel  deed 

Were  undertaken  from  the  baser  lust 


Arfy  Abbey.  '  13 

That  covets  still  a  brother's  fuller  meed 
Of  wine  or  oil,  or  worse,  that  yellow  dust 
Whose  worship  damns  the  soul,  corroding  like  foul  rust. 

And  there  was  one  young  lord — their  ancient  foe 

By  right  of  birth  (since  all  his  race  had  waged 
Perpetual  war  with  theirs)— who  strove  to  show 

A  title  to  their  lands,  who  did  engage 

Before  a  silver  hair  should  mark  his  age 
By  love  or  conquest  to  unite  in  one 

Their  baronies.     He  had  flung  down  the  gage, 
And  jealous  eyes  with  strong  impatience  shone, 
Waiting  a  leader  and  the  word  to  set  like  furies  on. 

But,  though  these  dangers  threatened,  Arby's  chief, 

When  newly  burst  to  manhood,  took  his  way 
To  see  the  world  and  sun  youth's  golden  leaf 

That  dances  gaily  in  the  breeze  of  May. 

Then  fears  arose  that  he  would  go  astray; 
His  father's  bane  had  been  a  pretty  face. 

The  son  might  learn  repentance  in  his  day — 
His  mother's  nature  and  her  easy  grace 
Lived  in  his  smile — and  weakness  courts  disgrace. 

Time  passed  but  he  returned  not;  then  there  came 
A  whispered  rumor,  then  a  tale  confirmed 

That  lit  in  every  cheek  a  crimson  shame. 
For  he,  no  longer  true  in  nature,  yearned 
To  pleasures  low,  mixing  with  those  who  burned 

Incense  at  folly's  shrine,  content  to  glide 

A  gilded  speck,  life's  higher  purpose  spurned, 

Adown  poor  fashion's  shallows,  with  the  tide, 

Duty,  life's  rudder,  lost,  and  honor  flung  aside. 

W^ild  loving  eyes  grow  secretly  to  watch 

Their  idol,  but  no  tear  or  frown  reveals 
Anger  or  grief;  nor  can  the  quickest  catch 


14  Ardy  Abbey. 

A  signal  to  revolt;  a  bright  brave  smile  conceals 
The  pang  of  her  wrecked  hope,  which  each  one  feels 
As  if  his  own,  praying  there  may  arrive 
The  chance  infallible  time  ever  deals 
To  overthrow  that  mortal  who  may  strive 
Without  truth's  guiding  light  on  earth  to  act  or  live. 

It  came  not  then.     She,  like  a  graceful  leaf 

That  holds  its  place  but  while  the  summer  sun 
Matures  the  wealth  upbound  in  autumn's  sheaf, 

Prepared  to  leave,  her  mother's  task  was  done — 

'T  had  been  to  foster  that  neglected  son 
Whom  chance  of  battle  summoned  to  a  throne. 

His  youth  once  past,  and  manhood's  race  begun, 
He  was  the  lord,  and  all  was  still  his  own, 
She  could  not  sue  or  bow,  and  childhood's  hope  was  flown-. 

Had  he  been  true  and  brave — but  such  a  blot 

Must  if  repented  still  her  love  estrange; 
His  early  dream  in  lower  cares  forgot. 

Nor  would  she  now  accept  the  poor  exchange 

Of  heart  for  heart  with  one  who  knew  to  change. 
He  had  unworthy  proved,  although  he  held 

The  place  of  honor- — could  his  fancies  range 
His  was  a  spirit  chance  could  never  weld 
On  to  the  race  whose  truth  through  all  her  nature  swelled. 

And  quietly  she  left  her  girlhood's  shrine, 

And  eyes  were  moist  and  hearts  beat  angrily, 
And  had  her  word  been  less  a  law  divine 

Rebellion  had  broke  loose.     Defyingly 

They  thought  of  him,  and  all  too  readily 
They  waited  but' the  word  that  should  awake  to  proof 

Their  trusted  love  and  inborn  fealty; 
"  But  his  their  duty,  his  that  honor'd  roof, 
Nor  must  they  fail  his  need  or  hold  from  him  aloof." 


Ardy  Abbey.  1 5 

And  forth  she  went,  not  deeming  to  return. 

But  time  and  fate  bring  each  their  destined  end. 
Hearts  may  forego,  or  with  ambition  burn, 

Their  goal  is  fixed,  to  it  all  changes  tend. 

Virtue  and  valor  to  the  path  may  lend 
A  glory  of  their  own,  but  fate  is  still 

The  god  of  fortune  and  alone  can  send 
Or  know  the  chance  that  leads  to  good  or  ill — 
The  "must  be"  comes  to  pass,  in  spite  of  human  will. 


II. 

It  was  high  festival  in  Arby's  Halls, 

And  youth  and  beauty  glittered  in  the  ray 

That  ever  brighter  upon  splendor  falls, 
As  if  a  kindred  feeling  made  it  play 
More  brilliantly  about  the  rich  and  gay 

Than  on  the  wretch  whose  spirit  sunk  in  gloom 
Seems  all  at  variance  with  the  golden  day, 

Longing  for  twilight  or  the  darkened  tomb, 

Feeling  hope's  blank  reverse  or  sorrow's  certain  doom. 

But  little  thought  of  sorrow  lived  within 
Or  friends  or  bride  so  splendidly  arrayed; 

In  corridors  once  sacred  rose  the  din 

Of  laughter  and  of  song,  of  man  and  maid 
In  wanton  dalliance,  nothing  more  afraid 

Than  butterflies,  bright  children  of  a  gleam. 
Gay  in  the  light  and  amorous  in  the  shade. 

To  whom  high  fate  is  but  a  summer's  beam — 

Poor  insects  of  an  hour,  having  no  after  dream. 

There  are,  thank  God !  upon  this  wondrous  earth 
Hearts  that  are  earnest,  souls  like  heaven  true, 
Whose  love  and  gentleness  and  growing  worth 


1 6         .  Ardjy  Abbey. 

Keep,  spite  of  chance,  love's  skies  forever  blue; 

Feeling  life's  majesty  that  glimmers  through 
Time's  petty  pleasures  or  its  sterner  grief; 

To  such  love's  dream  retains  its  pristine  hue — 
Spite  of  the  changing  hour,  the  withering  leaf, 
Existence  is  a  joy  and  age  a  golden  sheaf. 

And  song  and  dance  and  gladness  well  become 

The  time  of  youth  if  virtue  holds  the  rein. 
To  hearts  wherein  truth  finds  a  constant  home 

The  hour  of  mirth  can  bring  no  after  stain; 

All  loving  nature,  past  her  clouds  and  rain. 
Flashes  her  brightest  sunlight  to  adorn 

The  earth  that  smiles  in  glee;  but  all  in  vain 
Is  laughter  when  of  virtue's  crystal  shorn. 
Man  is  no  insect  but  with  higher  reason  born; 

And  laughter  breaks  to  discord,  song  to  sighs, 

When  selfish  passion,  pleasure,  and  desire  ' 

Make  up  life's  all,  and  while  those  holier  ties 

That  still  to  higher  thought  the  man  inspire 

Forgotten  live,  like  unextinguished  fire, 
To  burn  and  brand  when  sated  passions  end; 

Truth  in  the  human  soul  may  not  expire, 
And  self-condemned  they  suffer  who  dare  lend 
Their  strength  to  worthless  joys,  unmindful  where  they  tend. 

And  discord  rose,  the  discord  of  deep  hell. 

Each  to  the  other  but  the  hollow  show 
Of  virtue  seem'd,  suspicion  dark'ning  fell 

On  woman's  smile;  no  friend  a  friend  could  know — 

The  tainted  heart  believes  each  heart  is  so; 
The  canker  fear  poisons  the  blossom  trust; 

Mirth  turns  to  license,  valor  cannot  grow, 
Nor  love  inspire,  but  choked  by  foulest  dust. 
The  God  in  man  once  lost,  he  but  awakes  disgust. 


Arby  Abbey.  17 

Through  every  rank  had  spread  the  foul  disease; 

The  old  retainers  most  had  passed  away; 
Their  bold  free  speech  and  glance,  had  failed  to  please 

The  lord  and  lady  of  that  garish  day; 

Nor  were  they  such  as  knew  to  stoop  or  play 
The  flattering  courtier  to  a  painted  face. 

They  worship'd  truth,  all  falsehood  dared  gainsay; 
Nor  would  they  cease  to  speak  of  parted  grace, 
And  all  that  splendor  grew  to  them  like  deep  disgrace. 

Lured  by  the  wild  disorder  of  the  time, 

Their  neighbor  foe  assembled  his  strong  band, 

And,  waking  consternation  like  a  chime 

Of  solemn  bells  when  death  is  close  at  hand, 
,  They  heard  his  bugles  ringing  through  the  land, 

And  faces  paled  within  those  walls,  whose  might 
Had  laughed  defiance  if  but  only  manned 

By  those  whom  danger  could  not  so  afright, 

Whose  hearts  not  lost  in  ease  had  dared  sustain  their  right. 

Some  efforts  were  there  made  to  form  a  force. 
But  such  as  still  inspired  more  fear  than  hope. 

And  pleasure's  parasites,  swift  to  divorce 
Themselves  from  peril,  had  no  will  to  cope 
For  friendship's  sake  with  danger,  or  to  mope 

In  walls  besieged,  and  in  the  needful  hour. 
Like  curs  that  yelp  and  huddle  in  a  group. 

They  counsel  take  of  fear — "Alas!  all  human  power 

Must  bow  to  fate,"  they  sigh,  deserting  hall  and  bower. 

And  of  his  feasted  friends  no  one  remained. 

A  few,  the  old  brave  liegemen  of  his  sires, 
Hearts  that  with  cowardice  could  not  be  stained, 

In  whom  still  lived  the  pride  of  race  which  fires 

The  truthful  soul  that  duty  never  tires, 
Still  gather  round  him,  bowing  to  his  will, 


1 8  Arby  Abbey. 

And  with  the  flattering  hope  despair  inspires 
Incite  him  to  be  strong  and  dare  the  ill, 
Showing  the  Abbey's  strength  with  all  a  soldier's  skill. 

And  he  from  their  enthusiasm  caught 

A  moment's  resolution,  but  it  sank 
When  she  who  wept  and  could  not  once  be  brought 

To  see  or  feel  the  duty  of  her  rank 

Clamored  for  flight  and  safety,  did  not  thank 
A  husband  who  so  little  cared  for  her 

As  to  expose  her  to  the  horrid  blank 
Bare  rooms  that  chilled,  wherein  she  dared  not  stir; 
Alone  if  he  must  stay,  let  him  the  risk  incur. 

So  fails  all  selfish  love — Ah !  did  he  think 

A  moment  then  of  her  he'd  cast  aside, 
And  from  his  memory  take  one  bitter  drink, 

Learning  the  difference  between  noble  pride 

And  vanity  and  dress,  when  deified 
In  woman's  nature,  making  her  appear 

The  bauble  beautiful  to  those  weak-eyed 
Whose  love,  caught  by  a  show,  must  fall  to  sear 
When  trust  is  needed  most  in  one  he  holds  too  dear .? 

He  paused  irresolute;  but  when  was  man 

Match  for  the  woman  who  his  heart  could  touch .? 
With  Adam  and  mankind  the  tale  began; 

Wealth,  fame,  and  state,  and  all  that  he  may  clutch, 

Or  be  it  little,  be  it  more  than  much, 
He  sacrifices  still  to  her  who  pleads; 

She  in  his  weaker  moments  makes  him  such 
As  answers  ever  to  her  fancied  needs; 
Who  boasts  resistance  knows  not  love,  but  its  poor  weeds. 

Who  doubts  the  nobler  skill  of  him  who  fell, 

Not  from  the  strength  of  Caesar  or  his  power. 
But  that  he  loved  the  Egyptian  woman  well — 


Arby  Abbey.  1 9 

Too  well  to  be  himself — when  she  did  shower 
The  tears  and'  smiles  which  were  her  native  dower 
Upon  a  heart  her  nature  knew  to  sway, 

Using  her  womanhood  in  baleful  hour 
To  bring  herself  and  him  to  blank  dismay, 
Blinding  his  captain's  eyes,  and  leading  him  astray. 

Well  did  she  pay  the  glorious  debt  she  owxd. 

And  blent  with  his  to  all  eternity 
Her  name  and  fame,  but  all  too  late  she  showed 

The  hero-spirit  that  could  render  free 

Her  warrior-lover  his  great  self  to  be 
In  danger's  hour.     And  in  their  smaller  space 

The  women- workers  still  may  live  to  see 
That  they  with  vanity  can  bring  disgrace— 
For  woman  is  woman  still  and  oft  usurps  her  place. 

It  is  not  in  the  day  when  danger  lowers. 

Nor  is  it  when  temptation  is  most  strong, 
'Tis  in  those  pliant,  soft,  and  gentle  hours 

When  man  forgets,  when  on  her  lip  is  hung 

The  wealth  he  covets;  then  round  her  is  flung 
The  magic  mantle  rendering  woman  great; 

'Tis  then  she  holds  a  power  like  poet's  song 
To  mould  her  own  as  well  as  lover's  fate. 
She  in  the  trial  hour  should  trust  without  debate. 

And  they  were  gone  before  the  foe  arrived; 

The  few  were  left  all  captainless  to  act; 
Dismayed  and  sad,  but  nothing  yet  afeared. 

They  choose  a  leader.     Waiting  the  attack, 

The  thought  arose :  Ah !  could  they  but  call  back 
That  daughter-mistress,  quick  would  their  numbers  grow. 

The  one  they  deemed  most  skillful  in  his  tact 
To  question  and  persuade  was  bade  to  go 
In  search  of  her  who,  found,  might  still  withstand  their  foe. 


20  Arby  Abbey. 

III. 

Best  highest  instinct,  true  nobihty, 

Man's  faith  in  truth  in  goodness  and  in  God, 
In  weakness  strength,  light  in  captivity, 

A  power  to  guide  him  o'er  Hfe's  roughest  sod 

'Mid  thousands,  or  where  yet  no  foot  hath  trod, 
His  heart  is  fearless  that  is  blest  with  thee, 

Thou  counter  spell  to  sightless  fortune's  rod, 
Dealing  earth's  treasures  without  power  to  see, 
Upraising  fools  to  boast,  but  not  to  equal  thee ! 

There  lay  deep  in  the  woods  from  Arby's  fane 
A  simple  lodge  with  creepers  overgrown, 

A  shelter,  not  a  structure  to  make  vain 
The  heart  that  prized  it  only  as  her  own, 
A  place  where  she  might  live  and  raise  a  throne 

To  virtue  and  high  thought,  where  light  and  shade 
And  bird  and  hind  for  many  years  alone 

Had  fearless  sped  along  the  tangled  glade — 

A  paradise  of  charms  by  loving  nature  made. 

And  here  the  maiden  with  her  scanty  train, 

Accepting  still  her  fortune  with  a  smile. 
With  gentle  words  and  clear  from  any  stain 

Of  pride  or  malice,  did  her  life  beguile. 

The  sweetest  flower  congenial  to  the  soil, 
She  seemed  to  grow  unto  their  watchful  eyes, 

A  fairer  being,  freed  from  the  turmoil 
Of  men  and  state  which  once  she  knew  to  prize — 
Her  woman's  nature  shone  purer  with  purer  skies. 

A  minstrel  wandering  had  chanced  to  light 
Upon  their  home,  and  he  was  wooed  to  stay. 

The  morn  was  full  of  splendor  and  the  night 
Made  musical  with  many  a  loving  lay. 
Much  did  he  talk  of  love,  and  seemed  to  play 


Ardy  Abbey.  21 

Upon  the  theme  as  though  himself  had  felt 

Its  cruel  barb  upon  no  distant  day; 
His  nature  all  into  his  song  did  melt 
As  though  the  joy  or  grief  was  still  too  keenly  dealt. 

Lofty  his  presence  was  beyond  his  tribe, 

His  words  were  "chosen  with  the  nicest  art;" 
He  would  not  tarry  for  their  golden  bribe, 

It  was  their  loneliness  that  won  his  heart. 

Nor  did  he  for  long  days  seek  to  depart; 
And  then  a  sadness  trembled  in  his  tone 

That  seemed  a  deeper  meaning  to  impart 
Unto  his  voice,  affecting  even  her  own, 
While  feelings  strange  arose,  longings  till  then  unknown. 

Her  dreams  of  love  and  life  had  mingled  still 

Duty  and  power  and  name  with  the  beloved; 
Her  heart  had  grown  beneath  the  poet's  skill    • 

To  feel  that  she  the  passion  had  not  proved. 

What  was  this  feeling  new  ?     Would  she  be  loved  .? 
Or  could  she  love  the  simple,  noble  man } 

As  to  the  light  will  fly  the  trustful  dove, 
To  nature's  bias  all  her  feelings  ran — 
She  loved,  nay  worshipped  him  almost  ere  love  began. 

He'd  taught  her  heart  to  know  that  love  was  not 
A  duty  paid,  but  all  high  feelings  given— 

A  purity  too  rich  for  pride  to  blot, 

A  power  on  earth  bright  as  the  will  of  heaven, 
Life's  highest  height,  freest  from  sordid  leaven, 

A  charm,  a  strength  not  subject  to  the  will. 
Through  all  her  pulses  was  the  lesson  driven ; 

She  learned  it  with  a  woman's  magic  skill. 

And  love's  full  splendor  broke,  like  some  spontaneous  rill. 

Startled,  ashamed,  confused,  yet  feeling  strong. 
She  knew  not  what  she  would,  but  musing  went, 


22  Ardy  Abbey. 

Still  humming  o'er  some  fragment  of  his  song, 
To  where  the  silent  woods  a  temple  lent, 
While  in  her  mind  were  fear  and  pleasure  blent. 

Who  was  he  ?     And  what  could  he  be  to  her  ? 
What  power  was  this  that  forcibly  had  rent 

From  all  the  past  her  thoughts  ?     That  did  confer 

A  wisdom  and  a  light  that  now  could  never  err  ? 

Or  stoop  to  share  with  one  below  herself 

Or  fate  or  fortune,  deeming  she  was  blessed  ? 

No,  not  for  race  or  name  or  worldly  wealth 
Could  she  in  fancy  feel  herself  possessed 
(Though  he  were  true  and  came  himself  and  pressed 

His  claim)  of  Arby's  throne.     She  could  not  give 
Her  heart  or  hand  once  more  to  be  caressed 

Save  to  the  man  for  whom  she  cared  to  live — 

Her  almost  acted  crime  she  prayed  God  might  forgive. 

« 

For  crime  it  seemed  to  wed  without  such  love 

As  he  had  sung.     Her  nature,  mastered  quite, 
Saw  all  things  from  the  palace  to  the  grove 

Lit  by  a  new  and  still  more  holy  light. 

Much  did  she  milse  and  dream,  and  day  and  night 
Were  full  of  fancies.     Still  within  her  brain 

A  maiden  doubt,  tha^  mocked  at  her  delight. 
Bade  her  to  pause  and  think,  and  brought  her  pain, 
Doubting  if  she  should  wed  one  of  the  minstrel  train. 

While  still  he  tarried,  as  with  the  golden  light 

Of  some  rich  day  the  heart  scarce  cares  survive, 
Remembering  all  its  pleasure  and  delight; 

And  while  within  herself  confusion  lived 

The  envoy  sent  to  seek  her  did  arrive. 
Calling  her  back  to  Arby  and  its  needs, 

He  paints  its  people  of  their  chief  deprived, 
And  running  o'er  the  sum  of  his  misdeeds, 
Name,  fame,  and  place  and  foe,  half  weepingly  he  pleads. 


Arby  Abbey.  23 

Nor  does  he  plead  alone;  her  minstrel  friend, 

Called  into  council,  aids  him  in  his  task, 
Offering  himself  as  one  who  knows  to  lend 

Such  help  as  she  from  man  at  need  must  ask; 

And  more,  he  proifers  in  his  minstrel  mask 
To  seek  her  followers,  even  among  her  foes 

Where  they  are  said  to  be;  nor  will  he  bask 
In  sunshine,  rest  in  shade,  until  all  those 
Once  her's  and  true,  with  love  again  about  her  close. 

And  she  waj  brought  to  yield  to  their  desire; 

And  on  the  morrow  a  small  cavalcade, 
Herself  the  centre,  with  her  heart  all  fire. 

By  many  feelings  moved — threaded  the  glade 

With  nicest  care,  fearing  some  ambuscade. 
But  not  a  sight  or  sound  to  wake  a  fear 

Was  heard  or  seen,  until,  the  summit  made 
Of  one  high  hill,  the  Abbey  being  near. 
The  foe  with  banners  raised  and  bent  on  sport  appear. 

Here  did  they  pause,  waiting  the  coming  night. 

And  wondering  speculate  upon  the  question  why 
Such  dalliance  lived  in  men,  led  by  a  knight 

Reputed  first  in  strength;  whose  bravery. 

Wisdom  and  skill,  'e'en  from  his  infancy. 
Had  been  the  theme  of  men.     All  unexplained 

And  inexplicable,  this  mystery 
Beguiled  their  thoughts  till  twilight  shadows  reigned, 
When  without  halt  or  stop  the  Abbey's  gate  was  gained. 

They  parted  there,  the  minstrel  on  his  quest. 
She  to  inspire  her  men.     Ah,  love  divine ! 

Thou  sweet  strong  tyrant  of  the  human  breast ! 
Brightest  in  danger's  hour,  thou  seem'st  to  shine 
When,  spite  of  modesty,  thou  barest  the  shrine     • 

Of  secret  hopes  that  live  untold  in  words ! 


24  Ardy  Abbey. 

A  soft  hand-clasp,  a  silence  how  sublime, 
Proclaims  thy  touch  upon  those  finer  chords 
Whose  music  is  the  wealth  that  memory  fondly  hoards. 


IV. 

Not  fearing:,  yet  scarce  hoping,  those  who  held 
The  halls  of  Arby  waited  their  threatened  foe; 

Each  in  his  turn  as  sentinel  beheld 

The  morning  break,  and  long  night-watches  go 
With  time's  still  march,  but  bring  no  sign  to  show 

They  had  or  friend  or  enemy  without. 
A  feeling  of  disgust  began  to  grow, 

And  each  one  vexed  his  comrade  with  some  doubt 

Before  the  army  came  in  days  that  lengthened  out. 

It  comes  at  last,  and  now  surprised  they  see 
No  efforts  made  to  take  the  place  by  force. 

Surrounded  not  besieged,  there  seems  to  be 
No  thought  of  battle— what  may  be  the  source 
Of  mercy  in  such  foes .?     Too  well,  of  course. 

They  know  the  weakness  of  the  house  within. 

Ah !  would  they  starve  them — 'shamed  to  bring  their  force 

Against  the  few  determined  there  to  win 

In  death  a  name  and  fame,  untouched  by  traitor's  sin } 

The  trumpets  ring — the  camp  is  all  astir, 
And  flags  are  hoisted ;  there  is  bustle,  life. 

He  comes — their  chief— ah!  he  will  not  defer 
The  work  in  hand.     They  roused  themselves  for  strife, 
And  hopeless  valor  in  each  heart  grew  rife 

For  sacrifice;  but  as  night's  shadows  fell 

A  soft  note,  touched  upon  their  comrade's  fife, 

Advised  them  of  his  presence  in  the  dell, 

And  not  alone,  she  comes  and  all  may  yet  be  well. 

3(C  5(C  5(*  9|C  3|C  3)C  3^  9^  3fC 


Arby  Abbey.  25 

V. 

De  Bracies  bold  of  Castle  Cliff  had  held 

A  place  in  histor}^  from  remotest  time, 
And  many  a  tale  of  valor,  sung  of  old, 

Was  still  extant,  showing  in  quaintest  rhyme 

Their  wonderous  strength.  The  right  divine 
Of  strength  to  worship  has  not  wholly  passed, 

But  in  those  days  'twas  the  one  thing  sublime, 
He  who  could  slay  the  most  was  highest  classed. 
The  weak  or  gentle  man  of  all  his  race  stood  last. 

But  as  things  changed,  when  brains  began  to  hold  . 

A  certain  rank  not  quite  to  be  despised, 
There  came  a  Bracie,  who,  perchance  less  bold 

Than  those  his  ancestors,  was  yet  more  wise; 

For  he  could  read  and  write,  and  knew  to  prize 
The  skill  of  tongue  as  well  as  strength  of  arm; 

And  where  force  failed  he  tried  in  other  guise 
To  win  the  thing  that  did  his  fancy  charm ; 
Success  was  still  success  achieved  in  storm  or  calm. 

And  he,  this  Bracie  with  a  learned  head 
And  flattering  tongue,  did  woo  a  lady  fair; 

But  in  the  end  his  wooing  badly  sped. 
For  she  eloped,  and  left  my  lord  to  wear 
The  willow's  graceful  branch;  choosing  to  pair 

(As  women  do  at  times)  without  the  voice 
Of  father,  mother,  who  are  thought  to  care 

Too  much  for  wealth  or  name  in  making  choice 

Of  him  who  comes  to  woo  and  bid  their  hearts  rejoice. 

The  marrriage  documents  had  all  been  drawn; 

The  day  arrived  to  set  on  them  the  seal. 
The  bridegroom  early  rose  that  happy  morn. 

But  still  behind  the  lady  in  his  zeal, 

He  but  arrived  to  hear  the  wedding-peal, 
3 


2  6  Ardy  Abhey. 

And  learn  that  she  had  gained  on  him  some  days; 

And  that  her  father  had  been  brought  to  feel 
*'  Things  might  be  worse  " — With  each  one  fortune  plays, 
And  woman  still  can  mar  the  plot  poor  Adam  lays. 

That  lady  was  the  heiress  in  reserve, 

To  whom  by  chance  might  come  the  Abbey  rich 
With  Arby's  stretch  of  pasture  and  preserve; 

And  from  that  hour  the  Bracie  hand  did  itch 

For  chance  of  any  kind,  no  matter  what  or  which, 
Love,  war,  or  craft,  so  that  it  did  redeem 

This  hope  now  lost — no  saint  in  holy  niche 
Hath  yet  inspired  so  deep,  so  strong  a  dream. 
As  did  that  lady  fair,  as  false  as  she  may  seem. 

For  in  the  Bracie  line  there  grew  a  sort 

Of  half  propriety  in  Arby's  hills  and  glades; 
Each  son  and  daughter  still  was  duly  taught 

To  covet  them,  in  love  dream,  or  in  raids; 

The  valor  of  their  sons,  the  beauty  of  their  maids 
Were  dedicated  ever  to  this  end; 

The  hope  well  kept  for  more  than  twelve  decades 
Had  nothing  paled  when  our  young  lady  friend. 
Deserting  its  loved  shade,  a  wanderer  forth  did  wend. 

But  Bracie  of  that  day  had  higher  grown ; 

Wisdom  and  valor  both  were  his — he  shone 
Pre-eminent;  ere  boyhood's  dreams  were  blown 

He  won  a  name  given  to  few  or  none. 

Leader  in  every  sport,  there  was  not  one 
Or  forester  or  soldier,  minstrel,  priest, 

But  owned  his  skill;  he  wore  the  crown  alone 
As  brave  or  wise,  and  with  his  manly  zest 
And  strength  that  never  failed  he  still  eclipsed  the  rest. 

As  boy,  'twas  his  the  highest  tree  to  climb; 
He  knew  the  note  of  everv  bird  that  flew; 


Ardy  Abbey.  27 

No  animal  more  native  to  the  clime, 

He  found  the  place  where  secret  flowerets  grew; 
And  joy  and  inspiration  still  he  drew 

Not  less  from  books  than  nature;  he  was  kind 
Except  when  roused  by  some  ill  deed;  not  true 

To  what  he  held  high  duty — he  could  find 

Excuse  for  all  save  this,  within  his  liberal  mind; 

But  this  would  wake  a  tempest  in  his  heart; 

That  man  was  straight  dismissed  who  failed  to  keep 
A  promise  made,  or  left  unplayed  some  part 

Entrusted  to  his  care;  his  feelings,  deep 

As  depths  of  ocean,  could  be  roused  from  sleep 
By  noble  acts,  by  sorrow's  sickly  smile; 

His  heart  but  not  his  eye  knew  well  to  weep 
For  others'  woes,  though  seeming  firm  the  while 
He  gave  the  needed  help,  or  sought  grief  to  beguile. 

He  in  his  youth  had  heard  the  tales  of  old 

Respecting  Arby  and  its  hills  and  towers, 
And  in  his  mad-cap  doings  over  bold 

Had  feasted  there — as  minstrel  of  the  flowers — 

When  she  the  daughter,  in  the  bright  May  hours 
(The  May  of  life  and  morning  of  their  years). 

Was  crowned  May's  Queen,  and  worship'd  by  the  powers 
Fabled  to  dwell  in  forms  that  nature  bears 
When  laughing  sunbeams  shine  and  sweet  birds  sing  in  pairs. 

And  there  he  learned  to  love  her,  but  he  saw 
No  hope;  for  she,  wrapt  in  her  cousin,  play'd 

Queen  to  his  King;  and  warned  by  days  before 
He  did  not  deem  it  wisdom  to  degrade 
His  name  by  failure.     Not  the  less  he  made 

Himself  a  castle  out  of  air  so  fine 

It  could  not  stand  in  sunshine,  but  in  shade 

The  outline  his  quick  glance  could  well  define. 

And  many  a  dreamy  night  he  watched  that  dim  design. 


28  Ardy  Abbey. 

He  felt  his  rival's  was  no  soul  to  match 

That  bright-eyed  child  of  honor  and  deep  thought. 
The  jealous  mind  is  ever  quick  to  catch 

Sight  of  the  flaw  by  which  change  may  be  wrought. 

It  was  not  love,  'twas  qnly  chance  had  caught 
Her  noble  nature — all  unfit  to  share 

The  air  she  breathed,  her  king  was  less  than  naught, 
While  she  uprose,  above,  beyond  compare — 
To  time  he  trusts  his  chance,  nor  once  admits  despair. 

Safe  in, his  love,  he  passed  through  every  web 

That  others  set  to  catch  his  heart  or  eye; 
His  nature  was  a  sea  that  knew  no  ebb; 

In  its  deep  truth  and  faultless  fealty 

It  set  to  her  in  strong  reality 
Of  that  one  passion  which  absorbs  the  rest, 

That  only  bends  to  one  high  deity. 
That  circles  never  round  a  second  nest,  ' 

But  still  unchanging  lives,  trusting  it  may  be  blest. 

And  trusting,  waiting  thus,  yet  nothing  tired. 
He  learned  of  her  departure  and  its  cause; 

The  chance  foreseen  had  come — ah!  how  desired! 
But  still  he  deemed  his  duty  yet  to  pause. 
For  highest  love  moves  but  by  highest  laws — 

He  dare  not  woo  her  in  her  hour  of  grief. 
Then  came  the  notice  of  those  painted  daws 

Who  held  their  revel  with  her  sometime  chief, 

And  of  brave  hearts  estranged,  cast  off  like  last  year's  leaf. 

His  castle's  outline  suddenly  assumes 
A  firmer  form ;  true  love  is  swift  of  sight. 

And  from  the  distance  on  his  vision  looms 

The  things  to  be.     Still  had  he  judged  aright — ■ 
As  soon  could  sunbeams  kiss  the  shades  of  night 

As  souls  so  all  unlike  together  grow. 


OP  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

Ardy  Abbey^ 

The  sunbeam's  kiss  turns  darkness  into  light; 
She  for  a  time  could  on  her  cousin  throw 
A  seeming  beauty  like  the  storm-wove  transient  bow. 

It  faded;  he  withdrawn  beyond  the  reach 

Of  her  true  splendor,  mental  darkness  reigned; 

Thank  God !  in  time  the  needed  truth  to  teacli 
The  mirage  sank — heaven's  star  alone  remained, 
Pure,  fair  and  calm,  with  lustre  all  unstained. 

And  that  one  star,  his  own  heart's  guiding  ray, 

May  now  be  worshipped,  wooed,  and  even  gained. 

If  he  with  skill  love's  better  part  can  play; 

He  seeks  the  men  once  her's  and  bids  them  with  him  stay, 

And  consultations  they  together  hold. 

Not  crafty  he,  but  open  as  the  day; 
He  wins  the  confidence  of  young  and  old,    . 

And  well  returns  it  in  his  manly  way. 

His  plans  before  them  did  he  truly  lay, 
All  save  his  love.     He  swears  to  win  the  place, 

To  drive  this  crowd  of  jackdaws  from  their  prey. 
And  then  resign  it  when  she  comes  to  grace 
Its  halls  again,  without  a  claim  on  house  or  hill  or  chase. 

They  all  consent,  his  word  no  doubt  admits; 

Sacred  his  honor  ever  had  been  kept. 
Each  captain  straight  to  his  command  submits. 

Then  bugles  waked  the  revelers  where  they  slept. 

In  strategy  not  less  than  truth  adept, 
He  bade  them  scour  the  country,  make  such  show, 

That  still  their  power  by  seeming  overleapt 
Should  strike  wild  fear  into  their  craven  foe. 
And  even  perchance  achieve  their  aim  without  a  blow. 

And  further  he  confides  unto  their  skill 
His  forces  all,  the  Abbey  to  invest, 

Bidding  them  leave  one  pathway  open  still 
As  if  by  chance^no  home  must  they  molest. 
And  no  step  farther  must  the  siege  be  pressed 


30  Ardy  Abbey. 

Till  he  shall  join  them,  be  it  days  or  weeks. 

His  fuller  plans  locked  up  in  his  own  breast 
He  still  retains,  nor  cause  of  absence  speaks, 
But  from  his  eyes  a  smile  like  morning  sunlight  breaks. 


VI. 

How  different  is  the  shout  of  loyal  hearts 

From  those  huzzas  half  paid  for  and  half  wrung 
From  men  to  greet  some  tyrant  as  he  parts 

Or  cqmes  again  his  people's  homes  among. 

The  first  though  raised  by  few  is  felt  how  strong ! 
The  second  though  by  millions,  fails  to  wake 

Aught  save  a  sense  of  falsehood  or  of  wrong, 
That  bids  the  hearer  not  rejoice  but  quake, 
Foreseeing  what  must  be  should  chains  so  fragile  break. 

Ah !  but  the  shout  that  bid  her  welcome  back 
Rolled  like  glad  thunder  deep'ning  in  its  roll; 

And  still  the  vaulted  roof  gave  echoes  back, 
As  if  the  place  itself  endowed  with  soul 
Could  feel  her  presence,  and  the  might)^  whole 

Of  all  her  ancestors  joined  in  the  cheer, 
That  rising,  falling,  all  beyond  control. 

Died  in  the  distance  but  to  wake  more  near, 

As  peal  on  peal  still  came  deaf  ning  the  listening  ear. 

The  wild  enthusiasm,  hushed  not  dead. 

At  last  gave  place  to  question  and  reply; 
But  not  before  the  notice  wide  had  spread 

Throughout  the  camp  where  her  lost  followers  lie; 

And  ere  the  bells,  speaking  of  hours  that  fly, 
Rung  out  the  midnight  chime,  a  sentinel 

Summoned  his  captain  with  all  urgency; 
A  sound  of  footsteps  moving  in  the  dell 
Made  him  to  dread  attack,  or  doubt  if  all  were  well. 


Ardy  Abbey.  31 

The  sound  still  grew — the  march  of  many  men. 

The  walls  were  manned;  in  silence  deep  they  wait, 
When  on  the  breeze  the  shout  arose  again, 

Their  own  brave  rallying  cr}^,  and  all  elate, 

Words  that  so  oft  had  led  them  on  to  fate 
Came  to  their  ears,  and  back  from  each  tongue  rebounds: 

They  come — the  foe  deserted  long  may  wait 
Another  chance — to-morrow  from  the  grounds 
He  swept  shall  be  like  leaves  when  winter  takes  his  rounds. 

That  night  was  sleepless  passed  by  one  and  all, 

Greetings  and  questions  in  a  deluge  fell, 
Friend  still  on  friend  in  cheery  voice  did  call. 

And  every  one  had  something  more  to  tell 

Till  daylight  came  the  hubbub  wild  to  quell; 
Then  ranks  were  formed  and  order  brought  to  bear. 

Again  the  shout  of  joy  was  heard  to  swell, 
As  yearning  to  a  form  that  was  not  there, 
The  maiden  chief  appeared  to  thank  them  for  such  care. 

A  troubled  doubt  not  noted  by  her  men 

Lived  in  her  face.     Ah!  human  weakness,  love, 

Thou  undefined  yet  potent  power  that  can 
Subdue  the  bravest — who  unseen  doth  move 
With  subtle  influence  everywhere,  to  prove 

That  mind  o'er  matter  reigns  supreme  on  earth. 
The  self-sustained  to  chasten  and  reprove 

And  then  exalt  them  by  a  second  birth, 

Teaching  humility  in  heart  and  faith  in  others'  worth ! 

'Twas  this  that  made  her  cheek  so  pale  of  hue, 
Her  minstrel  had  returned  not;  nor  could  she 

By  question  learn  that  he,  though  more  than  true. 

Had  sought  their  camp.    Thoughts  rose  like  waves  at  sea; 
Impossible  it  was  to  her  that  he 

Should  fail  his  word.     Then  fear  of  accident 


$2  Arby  Abbey, 

And  all  the  mortal  chances  that  may  be, 
Came  to  her  mind  and  darker  shadows  lent, 
For  still  his  fate  with  her's  by  some  strong  pow'r  seem'd  blent, 
What  means  that  bugle  call  ?     The  foemen  ask 

A  moment's  parley  with  her  captains  brave, 
And  many  know  that  no  unpleasant  task 

'Twill  be  to  grant  the  favors  they  will  crave; 

But  not  the  less  each  brow  continues  grave. 
As  issuing  forth  all  armed  in  harness  bright 

They  tread  as  if  the  earth  could  find  no  grave 
For  men  whose  courage  born  of  truth  and  right 
Looks  proudly  from  their  eyes  in  that  young  morning  light. 

Short  was  the  conference  and  full  of  peace : 

"Their  captain  war'd  not  with  their  lady  queen; 
One  favor  granted,  hostile  frowns  should  cease 

And  never  rise  their  noble  lines  between. 

'Twas  but  that  she  once  more  upon  the  green,  , 

"With  crown  and  sceptre,  as  in  years  before 

Their  homage  should  receive,  claiming  the  scene 
(To  be  deserted  thenceforth  never  more) 
As  her's  not  his,  'gainst  whom  eternal  strife  he  swore." 

Ah !  for  a  heart  on  which  her  own  could  rest. 

Not  her's,  and  yet  her  own,  whose  clearer  sight 
Would  see  and  feel  and  know  what  course  were  best, 

Proving  the  thing  she  did  to  be  the  right. 

Her  followers  urge  with  unconcealed  delight 
Acceptance  of  these  terms — yet  dare  she  claim 

What  still  is  his  ?     The  coward  who  will  not  fight 
Is  all  unworthy  of  the  place  or  name. 
In  answer  to  her  doubt,  they  hiss  with  loud  disdain. 

Or  her's,  or  lost;  for  him  they  will  not  raise 

A  single  blade,  nor  strike  the  faintest  stroke. 
On  bended  knee  their  leader  humbly  prays 


Arby  Abbey.  33 

That  she  will  trust  them.     Feelings  almost  choke 
Her  utterance  as  she  answers:  "To  provoke 
A  war  were  wrong,  yet  wrong  it  seems  no  less 

To  take  by  force;"  and  here  her  nature  broke 
Almost  to  tears,  and  in  their  eagerness 
They  take  as  slow  consent  this  silence  of  distress. 

The  throne  was  built,  and  all  her  men  were  ranged 

In  their  due  rank  about  that  seat  of  state. 
A  feeling  once  to  all  her  nature  strange 

Caused  her  to  shrink,  her  heart  was  desolate; 

She  felt  no  longer  in  herself  complete; 
Her  strength  was  weakness;  love  had  taught  her  fear; 

Should  she  accept,  at  some  not  distant  date 
These  lordly  favors  might  be  made  to  wear 
A  meaning  all  at  war  with  joys  her  heart  would  share. 

As  some  fair  blossom  in  a  swollen  stream, 

Among  its  eddies,  whirled  and  tossed. 
Can  keep  no  onward  motion,  but  doth  seem 

In  its  desire  to  be  forever  crossed, 

So  in  her  mind,  poor  will  was  baffled,  lost. 
'Twas  her,  yet  not  herself  the  captains  led 

To  sit  in  state  among  that  mighty  host; 
She  heard  the  bugles  blown,  and  overhead 
She  felt  the  sky  serene,  while  round  her  grew  the  tread 

Of  men  who  bowing  passed;  then  all  was  still. 

One  only  kneels,  and  oifering  her  his  sword, 
His  castle  keys,  his  life,  his  strength,  his  skill, 

He  swears  obedience  to  her  lightest  word. 

She  hears  and  trembles  like  a  new-caught  bird—* 
Then,  sky  forgot,  she  drinks  life  through  her  ears; 

That  voice  her  nature  to  the  depths  hath  stirred ; 
His  generous  stratagem  the  more  endears; 
It  is  her  minstrel-knight — She  bids  him  rise  with  tears. 


34  Arby  Abbey. 

Ah!  then  came  days  of  festival  and  joy; 

And  cause  for  gladness,  living  still,  may  last; 
For  they  were  wed,  and  many  a  maid  and  boy 

Who  from  that  union  sprung,  have  radiance  cast 

On  England's  histor}'  in  the  glorious  past; 
And  still  some  live,  their  influence  true  to  wield, 

To  nail  her  colors  to  the  broken  mast, 
Or  be  a  charm  upon  the  hard-fought  field 
Where  England's  fearless  few  shall  bring  whole  hosts  to 
yield. 


LOVE'S   FATALITY. 


THE  brightest  blessings  when  misused  by  man 
Become  a  curse.     The  deadhest  pang  of  woe, 
The  bitterest  tear  that  since  the  world  began 
(Heart-born  and  burning,  torturing  and  slow 
As  suffering  moments  that  seem  not  to  go) 
Hath  sprung  from  love.     Virtue  and  life's  best  gem 

The  joy  of  joys  a  human  heart  may  know, 
Life's  fullest  flower  upon  its  shapeliest  stem 
Crown  to  man's  nobler  self,  his  mortal  diadem ! 

Picture  the  living  world  and  love  shut  out! 

What  inspiration,  gracious  impulse,  deeds, 
Thoughts  delicate  and  fondest  cares,  that  rout 

Self  from  the  heart,  were  lost !     The  other  seeds 

Which  grow  to  flowers  would  dwindle  into  weeds; 
Still'd  were  the  poet's  song,  the  ennobling  tale; 

The  path  of  virtue  that  to  heaven  leads 
Hopeless  were  trod;   heaven's  self  would  fade  and  pale 
And  all  creation  sink  into  a  joyless  vale. 

Yet  picture  once  again  the  misery  born 

Of  hapless  love  that  reaches  not  its  goal; 
Of  guilty  love,  the  piercing,  cankering  thorn 

Of  suffering  love,  whose  life's  one  answering  soul 

Sleeps  the  long  sleep  that  wakes  not.     From  the  whole 
Of  love's  great  grief  an  inner  world  is  made, 

A  shadowy  region  beyond  man's  control; 
A  world  of  weeping,  where  these  sad  hearts  wade 
On  through  time's  darkest  cloud,  mortality's  one  shade. 


36  Love's  Fatality. 

Its  power  to  suffer  and  not  shape  its  fate, 
To  each  comes  destiny,  prefixed,  no  change. 

The  mind  may  rise  up  to  the  good  and  great, 
Or  sink  below,  yet  in  the  narrow  range 
Of  human  power  man  may  not  once  estrange 

Himself  from  circumstance,  which  comes  to  teach 
Not  grows  to  his  desire.     The  soul,  here  strange. 

Commands  not  life  or  love  it  fain  would  reach. 

Be  worthy,  hope  and  wait;  the  flying  moments  preach. 

Ah !  once  there  grew  through  childhood  and  through  youth 

Two  friends  most  noble  in  their  birth  and  life. 
To  each  the  other  was  the  soul  of  truth; 

Their  spirits  rose  above  all  meaner  strife 

And  jealous  pangs  of  selfish  love  so  rife 
With  bitter  feuds.     Each  felt  the  other's  fame 

No  stab  at  heart,  like  some  assassin's  knife. 
But  equal  glory;  envying  not  the  name, 
Loving  the  winner  more  who  played  the  better  game. 

Thus  did  they  grow;  till  in  the  course  of  time 
Ripe  manhood  brought  to  each  the  fuller  mind, 

When  all  developed  rang  its  perfect  chime. 
Such  difference  shone  in  them  as  still  we  find 
About  God's  world  in  human  hearts  designed. 

Landolfo's  soul,  on  high  achievement  bent. 
Rushed  ere  himself  to  battle  for  mankind. 

Rinaldo's  heart,  with  gentler  music  blent, 

Loved,  worshipped  one  whose  maiden  beaut)'  sent 

A  thrill  through  all  his  pulses.     He,  the  lord 
Of  her  fair  self,  asked  for  no  higher  crown; 

Laying  aside  the  shield,  the  spear  and  sword,  • 
Content  with  love  and  home,  sought  no  renown 
Beyond  such  pleasures.     With  the  smile  and  frown 

Of  nature's  skies,  the  season's  changing  charms, 


Love's  Fatality,  37 

And  with  his  peasants  all  content  and  brown 
From  harvest  labors,  far  from  war's  alarms, 
He  lived  and  loved  and  hoped,  encircled  by  fond  arms, 

His  knightly  brother  left  the  day  he  wed 

And  "  au  revoir"  not  farewell,  blithely  sang 
As  down  the  oft-trod  path  alone  he  sped. 

And  last,  when  night's  deep  shadows  gathering  hung 

About  the  distance,  echoing  rose  among 
The  trees  his  bugle's  note,  and  he  was  gone. 

But  each  one's  thoughts  unto  the  other  clung; 
For  still  their  love  in  absence,  living  on, 
About  the  present  smiled  as  from  the  past  it  shone, 

Rinaldo's  home  was  happy  for  a  space, 

And  all  his  peaceful  aims,  like  ripening  corn 
Waving  in  sunshine,  lent  his  world  such  grace 

As  from  love's  hope  fulfilled  alone  is  born. 

Day  sinks  to  night,  night  melts  again  to  niorn 
The  while  glad  smiles  and  fond  about  him  cling. 

His  noble  nature,  dreading  no  unseen  thorn, 
Revels  in  joys  the  golden  hours  still  bring. 
Nor  dreams  that  latter  days  will  tarnish  love's  bright  wing. 

And  life  with  Landolfo  gaily  shone  and  fair 

In  spite  of  trials  wove  in  knighthood's  wreath, 
Whose  highest  hopes,  like  castles  built  in  air, 

Fall  at  the  touch  and  show  plain  earth  beneath. 

Yet  changing  scenes  and  men  and  hopes  bequeath 
To  him  the  careless  will  that  follows  whims, 

And,  for  a  time,  wakes  up  the  poor  belief 
That  he  is  blest  who  anchors  not,  but  skims 
Bird-like  those  waves  of  life  that  rise  with  golden  rims, 


38  Love's  Fatality. 


II. 

No  fairer  scene  the  day  reveals  to  sight 

Than  that  brave  building  girt  with  park  and  wood, 
Half  fortress  and  half  monastery,  whose  might 

Hath  many  a  siege  and  many  a  feast  withstood. 

It  lies  reflected  in  the  gentler  flood 
Of  rivers  widened  to  a  lake  by  art; 

Beauty  and  pride  and  strength  in  it  make  good 
The  owner's  title  to  a  lordly  part 
In  man's  high  game,  how  great  if  blest  with  brain  and  heart ! 

And  all  around  to-day  with  busy  care, 

Within,  without,  men  come  and  go  in  haste; 
Arches  and  flags  are  raised  to  make  more  fair 

Pathway  and  tower,  the  florid  rustic  taste 

Of  peasants  and  retainers,  not  in  waste. 
They  seek  not  nature's  charms  to  gild;  they  add 

Man's  welcome  to  a  view  that  shall  be  graced 
After  long  absence  by  its  owner's  smile.     And  glad 
Is  every  heart,  down  to  the  youngest  lad. 

For  he  their  lord,  Landolfo  loved  of  all, 
Is  one  to  crown  and  heighten  such  a  scene; 

On  him  God's  brightest  sunlight  deigns  to  fall; 

^    His  joyous  laugh,  his  kindly,  manly  mien 
Charm  and  delight.     With  her  full  hand  I  ween 

Hath  nature  dowered  him.     Of  a  princely  line 
He  looks  a  king  of  men,  and  faults  unseen 

By  friend  or  follower,  if  such  exist  to  tine 

His  nature,  are  eclipsed;  brighter  his  virtues  shine. 

From  foreign  travel  among  people  strange 

Back  to  the  scenes  of  early  youth  returning 
To  life's  lost  treasures,  fondest  fancies  range 


Love's  Fatality.  39 

And  tears  will  rise;  and  heart's  love,  newly  yearning 
To  those  withdrawn  beyond  the  eye's  discerning, 
Wakes  up  deep  sadness;  spite  of  reason's  reign 
Love's  unextinguished  fires  in  nature  burning 
Still  force  the  bitter  sigh  again  and  yet  again, 
And  time's  poor  goals,  death  spoiled,  look  lustreless  and  vain, 

Something  is  left,  though  more,  alas!  is  taken, 

Rinaldo  waits  him  smiling  at  the  door. 
And  hand  in  hand  in  fullest  love  is  shaken. 

The  friends  of  other  years  they  meet  once  more 

And  plans  discuss  as  in  the  days  of  yore. 
Each  home,  from  either  battlement  descried. 

Common  to  both,  becomes,  as  long  before 
In  youth,  the  stage  of  love  whereon  is  tried 
Who  best  can  please  or  show  affection's  fullest  tide. 

Ah!  glorious  change!     In  the  domains  around, 
With  horse,  hawk,  hound,  a  noble  company 

Breaks  the  long  silence;  and  the  cheerful  sound 
Of  laughter,  the  delighted  stirring  cry 
Of  hunters  in  their  chase  and  in  their  victory. 

Ring  through  the  woods.     While  round  the  festive  board 
The  goblet  passes  and  the  history 

Of  some  high  feat,  or  of  some  famous  lord 

Or  lady  fair,  is  told,  until  each  day  well  stored 

With  deed  and  word  is  rounded  into  night, 

Life  grows  all  pleasure  while  the  lady  fair, 
Rinaldo's  wife,  is  hostess  and  the  light 

Of  both  their  homes;  for  she  is  ever  there 

Where  they  abide,  assuming  all  the  care 
As  queen-directress  of  the  sport  and  feast. 

Purer  for  woman's  presence  and  more  rare 
Comes  pleasure;  the  greatest  to  the  least. 
At  her  approving  smile,  still  own  their  joys  increased. 


40  Loves  Fatality. 

Thus  run  their  days;  sparkUng  as  some  clear  stream 
GUding  through  meadows  and  overhanging  trees, 

Whose  shadows  add  a  beauty  to  each  gleam 
Of  light  along  the  ripples,  while  the  breeze 
Wakes  summer  music  in  fair  boughs"  that  please 

Themselves  at  play  with  their  own  wealth  of  leaves, 
Forgetful  of  chill  winds  and  nights  that  freeze. 

Ah!  joyful  days  that  virtuous  mirth  still  weaves; 

But  fate  or  passions  spoil  ere  garnered  into  sheaves. 

Nothing  is  new,  yet  everything  must  change. 

Storm  follows  sunshine,  summer  spring; 
And  in  the  world  of  mind  as  wide  a  range 

Of  feelings  now  alight  and  now  take  wing 

As  differing  scenes  and  differing  faces  bring 
New  aims,  new  aspirations,  new  desires 

Into  man's  life  that,  like  the  opal  in  a  ring, 
From  every  angle  flashes  different  fires 
Now  with  ambition  all  ablaze  and  now  aspires 

To  nothing  higher  than  a  long  deep  smile 

Of  love  and  sympathy  from  some  blue  eye 
That,  by  an  untold  charm,  seems  to  beguile 

The  heart  and  mind  of  all  its  energy, 

Laying  it  stranded  by  the  living  sea 
Heedless  of  time  or  of  the  surging  waves; 

A  shell  outworn,  a  toy  for  infancy 
No  longer  fit  for  battle,  since  it  craves 
To  lie  at  rest  and  dream,  wanting  the  will  that  braves 

Life's  dangers  for  the  danger's  self,  and  lives 
In  the  strong  light  of  hope  that  seeks  to  build 

By  its  own  force  a  fame  that  all  survives, 
Even  the  deeds  that  won  it.     Thus  is  stilled 
Landolfo's  heart;  no  more  his  high  hopes  gild* 

The  coming  years  with  fame  and  fair  renown; 


Loves  Fatality.  41 

Moody  and  watchful,  day  and  night  is  filled 
With  a  great  yearning,  and  the  smile  and  frown 
Of  one  fair  face  alone  all  other  fancies  drown. 

His  hand  erewhile  so  firm  grows  tremulous; 

His  eye,  no  longer  flashing  truth  and  light, 
Meets  others  with  a  look  so  dubious 

It  seems  to  fear  it  should  be  read  aright; 

His  spirit,  now  at  lowest  ebb  now  bright 
With  a  forced  splendor,  loudly  laughs  and  long 

As  in  a  fevered  dream.     Day  follows  night 
While  she,  the  enchantress  of  that  glittering  throng, 
Haunts  his  still  moments  like  some  weird  and  magic  song 

That  melts  all  resolution  to  a  sigh. 

Transforms  ambition  to  a  dream  of  bliss 
Passed  in  a  world  where  only  she  is  nigh, 

Where  passion  spends  itself  in  one  long  kiss; 

That  knows  no  aim  or  end  except  in  this. 
That  she  is  his,  his  own,  the  prize  of  life. 

The  be  all  and  the  end  all  of  each  wish; 
A  joy  beyond  all  meaner  lower  strife. 
His  ruling  power,  his  queen,  his  more  than  spouse  or  wife. 

Such  was  the  passion  deep  that  shook  the  frame   » 

Of  one  whose  softer  feelings  long  subdued 
Burst  forth  with  force  in  love's  avenging  name. 

When  least  he  deemed  his  passion  could  intrude. 

Ah!  human  nature,  that  will  itself  delude 
Into  belief  that  worldly  fame  alone 

Can  sway  the  beatings  of  man's  heart  when  wooed 
By  woman's  witchery,  never  yet  hath  shone 
A  fate  so  bright  and  high  that  for  such  joys  atone. 

Such  truth  Landolfo  found,  but  still  he  strove 

With  grief  and  fate,  until  o'ermastered  quite 
By  a  chance  meeting  in  a  twilight  grove, 
4 


42  Love's  Fatality. 

Where  interlacing  branches  did  unite 
To  form  a  screen  that  shut  the  world  from  sight 
And  them  unto  themselves.     Ah !  then  in  bated  breath 

That  tale  was  told  that  in  the  darkest  night 
Hid  should  have  been  in  silence,  even  in  death, 
O'er  ere  they  dared  to  breathe  a  word  to  wrong  His  faith. 

Ah!  fame  and  friendship,  weak  and  trivial  ties 
When  madness  comes,  the  madness  of  deep  love 

Not  told  by  youth  to  youth  in  bashful  sighs 

But  such  as  manhood's  full-grown  heart  doth  move 
To  SAvoop  as  doth  a  kite,  not  like  the  dove 

Winning  its  way  to  sweet  affections  throne; 
Born  but  of  earth  and  soaring  not  above; 

Having  no  kindred  with  that  higher  zone; 

Selfish  from  first  to  last,  and  cursed  with  grief  alone. 

Vain  is  the  plea  of  fate,  the  forged  excuse 

That  each  seemed  for  the  other  shaped  and  born; 
Life's  noblest  instincts  put  to  basest  use 

Eat  in  the  heart  like  some  corroding  thorn. 

While  he  each  wish  doth  wrong,  ah !  not  in  scorn 
Can  they  behold  him;  with  a  deadly  fear 

They  veil  their  eyes  to  him  and  feign  to  mourn; 
He  who  so  noble,  even  still  so  dear, 
Blasts  with  his  loving  smile  the  hearts  he  thinks  to  cheer. 


When  honor  wins  the  prize  it  nobly  sought 
And  reverently  brings  to  beauty's  feet, 

The  spoil  for  which  it  bravely  toiled  or  fought, 
That  smiling  she  its  victory  may  complete 
And  to  the  pride  of  manhood  add  the  sweet 

Assurance  of  that  love  that  makes  it  strong, 
Earth  has  no  second  joy  with  this  to  mete; 

The  laureled  victory,  the  ennobling  song 

Achieved  by  truth  and  love,  not  all  to  earth  belong. 


Loves  Fatality.  43 

Something  of  heaven  is  in  the  victor's  joy, 

Inciting  him  to  higher,  better  deeds; 
Time  to  the  noble  is  no  shallow  toy, 

No  string  of  days  for  pleasure's  simple  weeds. 

But  given  to  them  to  sow  the  glorious  seeds 
Whose  blossoms  shed  a  fragrance  over  life 

In  thoughts  that  elevate,  in  love  that  breeds 
Hopes  that  outsoar  its  meaner  pettier  strife. 
That  reach  a  second  world  with  splendid  promise  rife. 

But  when,  seduced  from  these  high  aims,  shall  fall 

A  once  brave  spirit,  veiling  its  own  light 
With  beauty  tangled  in  sin's  damning  thrall. 

His  manhood's  day  darkened  to  ugly  night 

And  soiling  her,  earth's  angel  of  delight. 
Whose  purity  and  smile  were  sent  to  give 

To  man  and  life  their  God-like  meaning;  bright 
With  hopes  that  up  to  His  high  throne  should  live: 
'Tis  God,  and  God  alone,  who  can  the  crime  forgive. 

Torn,  bruised  and  broken,  struggling  in  such  toils, 

Landolfo  now  must  tear  himself  away. 
Guilty  the  will  that,  snake-like,  closing  coils 

About  the  inner  man,  he  dare  not  stay; 

The  face  he  loves  haunts  him  by  night  and  d^y. 
And  not  with  beauty's  beam  of  hope  and  peace 

But  with  a  Cain-like  charm,  a  blasting  ray 
Of  deep  remembrance  that  will  never  cease, 
But,  drawing  strength  from  chance,  seems  ever  to  increase. 

And  she,  no  longer  now  a  sunny  gleam. 

To  day  adds  beauty,  to  the  night  a  grace. 
No  strength  of  will  can  force  love's  hallowed  beam 

To  spread  its  splendor  o'er  a  darkened  face; 

Knowing  its  smile  a  lie,  its  truth  disgrace. 
The  laugh  still  rings,  but  there  is  lost  to  ears 

Accustomed  every  wave-like  sound  to  trace 


44  Love's  Fatality. 

Unto  its  home,  the  heart,  the  tone  that  cheers 
Telling  of  mirth  all  pure,  of  mind  that  nothing  fears. 

Rinaldo's  brow  grows  sad;  what  should  he  think; 

He  knows  no  doubt  of  wife  or  bosom  friend. 
A  change  has  come,  but  how  ?  There  seems  no  link 

Their  inner  with  their  outer  life  to  blend. 

The  days  have  not  their  wonted  happy  end; 
His  plans,  his  hopes,  and  all  his  thoughts  are  vain; 

What  grief  from  him  their  confidence  can  rend  ? 
Bah !  'tis  but  a  cloud,  some  shadow  of  the  brain 
That  wiU  unnoticed  pass,  and  sunlight  smile  again. 

But  ere  it  smiled  Landolfo  spoke  his  will: 

His  mind  grown  restless  sighed  for  stir  and  change. 
Of  peace  and  home  his  soul  had  drank  its  fill, 

Once  more  he  yearned  to  scenes  and  faces  strange; 

To  wake  his  pulses  he  again  must  range 
The  earth.     Alas!  he  is  not  formed  for  rest; 

His  mind,  unlike  his  friend's,  is  still  deranged, 
Nor  can  with  peaceful  joy  be  ever  blest — 
For  hearts  like  his  time  hath  no  home,  no  tranquil  nest. 

With  full  determination  forth  he  goes; 

He'll  sin  no  more;  no,  no,  not  even  in  thought; 
He'll  seek  for  death  among  his  country's  foes, 

And  win  the  penalty  ignobly  bought; 

With  a  fierce  agony  his  mind  is  fraught. 
And  all  his  heart  is  black  with  such  despair 

As  passions  uncontroled  have  ever  wrought 
Around  their  victim,  since  Cain's  right  hand  dare 
A  brother  strike.     His  marked  brow,  every  wherp 

Darkens  with  thoughts,  that  live  and  burn  and  blast, 
That  spite  of  distance,  time  and  changing  scene, 
Return  and  still  return  unto  the  past, 


Love's  Fatality.  45 

Recalling  vividly  all  that  hath  been. 

One  power  repels,  one  tempts  him,  and  between 
The  two  existence  grows  an  endless  curse, 

Without  love,  or  hope,  or  any  softening  screen, 
To  shut  out  horrors,  v/axing  worse  and  worse, 
A  lengthening,  deepening  night,  having  no  bright  reverse. 

And  in  Rinaldo's  home  no  sunshine  broke 

As  he  had  hoped.     Those  days  that  ne'er  return. 

In  memory  living,  idly  still  provoke 

A  wonder  why  love's  star  has  ceased  to  bum, 
And  why  his  mind  must  ever  vainly  yearn 

For  smiles  and  music  once  his  truest  own. 
Ah  lesson  sad,  experience  hard  and  stern— 

'Tis  deepest  loss  that  changes  life's  rich  tone. 

And  leaves  the  saddened  heart  to  beat  and  beat  alone. 

For  he  is  lone  beyond  all  loneliness 

Who  touches,  feels,  sees  one  who  lives,  and  knows 
Her  will,  desire,  affection's  wealth  to  bless. 

And  every  charm  that  o'er  existence  throws 

A  softening  beauty — melted,  like  the  snows 
Of  winters  past — melted  and  lost  to  him. 

While  yet  her  form  pays  him  in  hollow  shows 
A  reverence  that  fails  the  eye  to  dim. 
That  only  wounds  more  deep,  showing  the  spectre  grim 

Of  love,  dead  love,  that  cannot  be  revived; 

That  answers  not  to  his  once  wakening  touch. 
But  like  a  spirit  called  and  weaned,  and  shrived 

.  From  its  past  life,  evades  his  skill  to  clutch. 

Oh  life's  worst  death  to  him  whose  heart  loves  much; 
This  loosing,  holding,  having,  having  not 

The  one  it  treasures — once,  but  once  can  such 
Strong  grief  assail  us  in  one  mortal  lot — 
Man  withers  at  its  breath,  shrinks  dwindled  to  a  blot! 


46  Love's  Fatality. 

The  high,  the  pure,  the  slowest  to  commit 

A  crime,  are  still  the  slowest  to  conceive 
Or  in  their  minds  a  shadowy  doubt  admit 

Against  one  heart  whose  faith  they  yet  believe. 
Semblance  or  chance  or  fancy  may  deceive, 

And  seems  to  them  is  not  a  proof  of  crime: 

Not  till  the  full  assurance  they  receive, 
Beyond  loves  power  to  question  place  or  time, 
Will  they  condemn  or  hear  guilt's  harsh  and  grating  chime. 

For  it  is  still  a  truth,  and  shall  endure. 

Like  all  He  taught  who  wore  the  crown  of  thorns, 
That  "to  the  pure  of  heart,  all  things  are  pure;" 

Still  such  a  soul  rejects,  and  bravely  scorns 

To  watch  for  deeds  at  which  fair  virtue  mourns. 
Alas!  alas!  but  time  must  often  bare 

To  human  eyes  the  guilt  that  darkly  dawns 
In  minds,  ah  I  now  no  longer  pure  and  fair, 
But  tainted  with  disease  to  poison  God's  sweet  air. 

Not  guilt,  not  virtue,  is  on  earth  secure; 

Guilt  fails  to  hide,  and  virtue  to  succeed 
In  time,  both  natures  suffer  and  endure: 

Wounds  differ,  but  each  soul  must  bleed; 

He  knows  the  cause  who  set  the  living  seed, 
And  He  the  fate  of  each  will  shape  and  cast. 

Pause,  pause  Rinaldo,  and  forbear  to  read 
Words  that  shall  life  and  hope  forever  blast. 
'Tis  done;  behold  that  throe — ah!  grief,  relax  thy  grasp! 

A  letter,  nothing  more,  signed  by  his  friend, 

Found  lost  by  some  mistake — 'twas  destiny  that  writ. 

Ah!  what  a  trifle  serves  the  veil  to  rend 

From  sin  and  wrong;  no  craft  avails  to  knit 
A  screen  for  guilt;  the  darkest  night  seems  lit, 

And  in  the  end  its  secrets  must  disclose. 


Love's  Fatality.  47 

Shame's  garment  wraps  round  him  who  feels  it  fit; 
Crime  and  the  criminal  are  deadliest  foes, 
Accusing  and  accused,  they  tell  what  conscience  knows. 

'Tis  clear,  alas!  too  clear,  the  meaning  now 

Of  that  past  change  from  mirth  to  mirthless  glee; 
The  unnatural  laughter  and  the  clouded  brow, 

The  lost  desire,  the  sullen  mystery. 

Are  all  too  plain,  their  withering  history 
Before  him  lies — 'twas  love  with  guilt  combined. 

But  his  fond  eyes  such  meaning  could  not  see; 
And  now,  alas !  what  solace  can  he  find  ? 
Landolfo's  come  again.     He  dare  not  now  be  blind. 

How  much  their  guilt .?  Is  it  but  yet  in  will  ? 

"  He  cannot  live,"  he  writes,  "  and  longer  bear 
Alone  his  misery,  that  orAy  fails  to  kill, 

As  vulture-like  his  passions  seem  to  tear 

His  soul,  that  yearns  and  yearns  once  more  to  hear 
Her  voice,  to  look  again  into  her  eyes; 

Ah !  cruel  fate,  to  show  him  one  so  dear. 
Yet  place  beyond  all  hope  the  tempting  prize, 
Condemning  him  to  roam  an  outcast  from  love's  skies." 

'Twas  read,  and  from  his  hand  in  fragments  fell; 

Where  shall  he  turn,  where  fly  ?  All,  all  is  gone; 
There  is  no  charm  on  earth,  in  heaven,  to  quell 

The  pang  that  rends  his  soul;  ah  none,  oh  none. 

Of  all  those  hopes  and  joys  that  lately  shone 
Are  left;  and  reason  totters  on  her  throne. 

They  were  his  all;  his  more  than  life  was  one 
Most  dear;  he  prized  them  as  his  dearest  own. 
Ah !  what  a  weight  of  grief  lives  in  that  hollow  moan, 

Hours  pass;  and  through  his  brain,  that  scarce  believes, 
Visions  of  vengeance  come  and  go,  and  change. 


48  Love's  Faialiiy. 

Vengeance — can  vengeance  his  torn  heart  relieve  ? 
Ah !  never  more  may  his  free  footsteps  range 
About  those  homes  and  scenes;  the  place  grows  strange 

Even  in  thought  as  he  tells  o'er  his  fate. 

Could  joy  be  his,  though  he  should  dare  avenge 

With  bloody  hand  the  guilty  pair  ?  Too  late; 

Earth  is  a  blasted  heath,  and  life  is  desolate. 

Ah,  might  he  die  while  yet  the  crime  unknown 

Lives  scarce  in  whispers;  not  to  open  shame 
Need  then  her  cherished  form  be  ever  shown; 

Still  would  he  shield  her  life  and  her  dear  name; 

For  them  flowers  still  may  bloom,  and  love  and  fame 
And  hope  and  happy  hours  returning,  smile  above 

The  place  she  brightens,     Who  shall  weigh  her  blame .? 
Who  fetter  inclination  ?  Who  command  free  love  .? 
The  heart  is  strangely  formed,  affections  still  will  rove. 

And  could  he  joy  in  her,  knowing  her  will 

No  longer  his ?     Oh!  oh!  the  pang  is  hard; 
What  boots  it  now  his  utmost  care  and  skill; 

He  hath  no  treasure  left  on  earth  to  guard; 

All  life  is  wrecked.     And  shall  he  then  reward 
Their  grimes  by  other  crime,  that  they  may  be 

Blest  in  their  love,  and  in  that  home  he  shared } 
Ah,  misery's  deepening  draught;  oh  agony. 
Oblivion,  darkness,  death,  hide  him  where  none  may  see 

Forth  from  the  place  he  flies  with  frenzy's  speed, 
Darkness  around,  the  madness  of  hell  within; 

A  tempest  howls;  he  pauses  not  to  heed, 

But  rushes  onward,  thinking  perchance  to  win 
A  goal  where  peace  may  once  again  begin; 

He  knows  not  how,  he  cares  not  where,  away — 
Ever  away,  he  shouts  amid  the  din 

Of  bursting  thunders,  while  the  lightnings  play 

Upon  a  face  from  which  reason  has  gone  astray. 


Love's  Fatality,  49 

The  morning  came,  and  found  him  flying  still, 

But  Heaven  was  merciful,  he  knew  not  why, 
He  thought  himself  escaped  from  some  great  ill, 

But  questioned,  child-like,  sat  him  down  to  cry; 

His  name  he  knew  not,  meaningless  his  eye 
Ran  o'er  the  faces  of  the  few  he  met, 

Then  passed  he  on  his  road  with  one  low  sigh, 
As  if  his  heart  on  some  sad  quest  were  set; 
But  what  ?  'twas  pitying  heaven  that  bade  him  to  forget, 

-T^'T^'r  'l^5(C5iC  ^^^ 

Day,  after  darkness  and  a  night  of  storm. 

Broke  smiling  sweetly  over  lake  and  tower; 
No  cloud  was  left  earth's  beauty  to  deform, 

Night's  terrors  vanished  with  the  sunless  hour. 

Ah !  could  man's  soul,  when  sin's  dim  shadows  lower 
Within,  but  purge  itself,  by  some  strong  rain 

Wash  out  all  wrongs,  and  by  some  gentle  shower 
Bring  back  the  past,  to  live  it  o'er  again, 
How  much  of  misery  would  be  saved,  how  much  of  pain  I 

Ah !  bootless  sorrow,  always  still  too  late ! 

Ah !  futile  grief,  when  passion's  strength  is  spent  I 
Ah !  human  weakness,  that  still  weaves  the  fate 

On  which  its  own  life's  hope  is  torn  and  rent ! 

Vainly  above  the  heaven's  blue  arch  is  bent, 
Vainly  the  day  smiles  temptingly  and  clear 

To  one  whose  heart  with  guilt  is  torn  and  shent 
Before  his  life  has  fallen  into  the  sear, 
Who  knows  his  days  laid  waste,  beyond  a  chance  of  cheer, 

Who  sees  the  past  spread  darkening  over  all. 
Present  and  future,  while  a  cloud  of  crime 

Encircles  life  as  with  a  funeral  pall, 

And  in  his  heart  a  never-ceasing  chime 
Of  late  repentance  keepeth  mournful  time 


50  Love's  Fatality. 

To  wonder  and  despair;  ah!  death  in  Hfe! 

Thought  wanders  back  to  manhood's  happy  prime; 
Its  beauty  uglier  makes  this  endless  strife 
That  rages  like  a  storm  with  fell  destruction  rife. 

The  morning  breaks  all  passionless  and  fair; 

Happy  are  they  whose  eyes  can  meet  its  beam 
Dreading  no  harrowing  question  that  may  bare 

Deeds  that  are  not,  "  the  shadows  of  a  dream." 

Not  yet  Landolfo  hears  the  rushing  stream 
That  ever  more  shall  haunt  him  to  his  grave; 

He  knows  his  crime,  but  all  unknown  doth  deem 
It  sleeps  unread  by  man,  since  dark  trees  wave 
Above  the  spot  where  they  to  sin  their  souls  up  gave. 

He  knows— but  what  is  this .''  a  peasant  boy, 
All  spent  and  breathless,  with  a  thrilling  tale 

Brings  him  a  hat,  that  like  a  leafy  toy 
The  sport  of  waters,  swollen  by  the  gale, 
Was  found  at  sunrise  where  the  willows  trail 

Their  branches  in  the  stream  below  the  falls, 
And  further  on  a  cloak  was  seen  to  sail; 

The  history  every  heart  suspends,  appals ! 

Rinaldo's  hat — his  name  rings  echoing  through  the  halls. 

Rings,  but  no  answering  voice  replies  to  ease 
The  fear  that  darkens  every  face  around; 

His  rooms  are  tenantless,  without  a  crease 
The  bed  is  there,  and  all  his  books  are  found 
In  their  due  order.     Then  comes  a  wild  rebound, 

And  men  make  for  the  river;  drags  are  thrown. 
But  all  in  vain.     The  water's  rushing  sound 

Answers  in  mockery  to  Landolfo's  moan, 

Who  sees  Rinaldo's  form  in  ever)^  distant  stone. 

Days,  weeks,  were  spent  in  search,  from  far  and  near. 
On  horse  on  foot,  retainers  went  and  came. 


Love's  Fatality.  51 

But  never  farther  tidings  could  they  hear. 
With  time  the  fiercest  sorrow  groweth  tame, 

All  poignant  grief,  and  even  man's  self  blame, 
Softens  and  fades  into  a  distant  cloud 
That  darkly  hangs  above  an  unused  name, 

And  conscience  whispers  low  that  once  spoke  loud 

When  some  sad  tale   is   wrapped   in   death's  unbroken 
shroud. 

And  many  months  of  storm  and  shine  had  passed, 
And  all  men's  minds  were  settled;  each  could  tell 

How  lost  Rinaldo,  dazed  by  rain  and  blast, 
Had  sought  to  pass  the  ford  below  the  dell. 
Forgetting  how  swift  the  river  rose  and  fell 

When  tempests  deluged  all  the  hills  and  plain; 
His  footing  lost,  the  waters  wild  as  hell 

Had  borne  him  helpless  to  the  distant  main: 

Thus  was  he  lost,  and  hence  their  search  had  proved  in 
vain. 

It  may  be  in  Landolfo's  heart  of  hearts 

A  fear  yet  lived  that  deadened  this  one  hope. 
At  sound  of  waters  all  his  nature  starts; 

Not  all  his  strength  can  with  this  weakness  cope; 

His  feet  avoid  the  path  whose  downward  slope 
Leads  to  the  river;  by  night  and  day  not  less 

About  it  all  his  darkest  memories  group; 
Men  deem  it  but  recalls  his  past  distress. 
But,  ah !  a  fear  like  this  must  spring  from  guiltiness. 

In  days  long  past,  ere  yet  Rinaldo  lived. 
And  while  Landolfo  on  his  mother's  breast 

An  infant  played,  their  fathers  smiling  gave 
Each  one  his  hand,  and  not  in  laughing  jest. 
But  earnest  faith,  pledged  their  eternal  rest — ' 

That  he  who  first  a  daughter's  smile  should  grace, 
The  other's  son  should  with  her  hand  be  blest; 


52  Love's  Fatality. 

And  all  their  wealth  and  lands,  so  broad  and  brave, 
Thus  joined  by  them  should  be  when  they  were  in  the 
grave. 

But  both  their  lives  cut  short  in  one  wild  day. 
When  hostile  knights  made  war  upon  their  king, 

Saw  not  fulfilled  this  dream,  that  oft  would  play, 
When  their  ambition  rose  on  eagle  wing. 
In  fancy  round  this  son,  whose  word  could  bring 

Into  the  field  an  army  of  such  might 

That  few  or  none  should  dare  gainsay  the  thing 

He  should  support;  they  saw  him  noblest  knight 

In  council  fearless  rise,  foremost  in  every  fight. 

And  their  brave  hearts  would  glow  with  valor's  pride; 

They  heard  their  names  still  shouted  in  the  field, 
While  their  blent  banners  to  the  winds  flung  wide 

Proclaimed  where  men  could  die,  but  never  yield; 

Of  king  and  state,  perchance,  support  and  shield, 
They  saw  him  to  all  honor  crowned  and  wed; 

His  glorious  heritage  he  knew  to  wield; 
Even  they  would  feel  it  in  their  silent  bed, 
And  raise  themselves  with  pride  among  the  mighty  dead* 

Ah!  could  they  see  him  now,  while  marriage  bells 

That  shall  unite  their  lands  float  in  the  air, 
His  face  but  little  of  such  splendor  tells 

As  then  they  deemed  must  grace  the  coming  heir; 

Nor  is  the  hand  that  joins  their  lands  so  fair 
The  hand  of  one  whose  veins  can  boast  such  blood 

As  they  in  honor's  cause  knew  not  to  spare, 
When  war's  wild  tide,  like  to  a  swollen  flood, 
Poured  dangers  round  them  everywhere  they  stood. 

But  living  men  cannot  control  their  fate, 

How  then  should  dead  men  sway  the  sceptre  strong 
Of  destiny,  that  more  than  birth  or  state 


Love's  Fatality.  53 

Makes  man  to  fall  or  rise  amid  the  throng 
Of  still  conflicting  powers  that  sweep  along 
His  path  in  life  ?     He  may  in  hope  propose, 
To  him  this  God-like  power  doth  belong, 
But  'tis  not  his  to  crush  all  future  deadly  foes 
That  may  arise  with  time  and  his  proud  plans  oppose, 

Fair  is  the  face  that  bears,  alas!  each  name; 

Fair,  frail  and  guilty,  judged  by  earthly  laws 
Its  maker  kindly,  when  he  stooped  to  frame 

A  thing  so  lovely,  but  with  human  flaws 

Bad  men  condemn  not;  but  all  gently  pause 
And  leave  to  heaven  vengeance  as  its  right; 

Since  only  He  could  fairly  weigh  the  cause 
That  led  such  erring  foot-steps  from  the  light, 
Nor  armed  imperfect  man  with  justice  in  its  rnight, 

And  they  were  wed ;  and  from  their  union  sprung 
A  child  who  bore  the  name  of  her  first  lord; 

Who  knows  but  he  the  name  may  bear  along 

Till  in  the  course  of  time,  with  grace  well  stored, 
He  shall  achieve  the  fame  his  sires  adored; 

In  him  will  center  all  their  boasted  power; 

Fortune  may  gild  his  knightly  pledge  and  word, 

And  life  on  him  its  choicest  blessings  shower — 

The  sun  of  heaven  still  shines,  though  earth's  dark  clouds 
may  lower. 

***  ***  *** 

Long  years  had  past;  the  boy  had  grown  to  man; 

Landolfo  and  his  wife  slept  deep  and  still, 
When  a  poor  wretch,  all  woe-begone  and  wan. 

Was  seen  to  haunt  the  brook,  the  dale,  the  hill; 

He  spoke  not,  laughed  not,  but  with  child-like  will 
Tottered  from  place  to  place  the  grounds  about; 

And  everywhere  would  pause  and  gaze  his  fill; 
His  face  seemed  full  of  some  wild  troubled  doubt. 
That  his  poor  weakened  brain  could  not  unravel  out. 


54  Love's  Fatality. 

He  knew  or  seemed  to  know  each  walk  and  turn, 

Yet  none  were  found  whose  memory  could  trace 
A  feature  once  familiar.     When  they  strove  to  learn 

By  questions  why  alone  he  sought  that  place, 

He  nothing  answered,  but  along  his  face 
A  shadow  past.     In  vain  was  all  their  art — 

As  well  to  question  stars  in  heaven's  blue  space; 
He  seemed  of  day-light  and  the  world  no  part; 
A  tongueless  moving  ghost,  whose  blank  gaze  made  them 
start. 

Days  lingered  he  among  them,  and  at  last 

They  found  him  dead  beside  the  stone  that  bore 

Rinaldo's  name  and  history;  and  the  cast 
Of  his  dead  features  to  their  fancy  wore 
A  semblance  of  his;  perchance  it  was  no  more 

Than  fancy  and  the  place  where  he  was  found. 
A  peasant's  grave  received  him;  all  was  o'er; 

No  mourners  wept,  no  friends  bedewed  the  ground; 

But  not  the  less  he  slept,  all  peaceful  and  profound, 


THE  TRUE  HISTORY  OF  ST.  ALEJO, 


In  the  Spanish  edition  of  the  "  Christian  Year,"  a  book  published  by  the 
Church  of  Rome,  and  containing  the  history  of  all  its  Saints,  we  find  the  fol- 
lowing  concerning  this  man's  life  and  death: 

"  On  the  seventeenth  of  July  the  Church  celebrates  the  feast  of  this  Saint,  so 
well  known  for  the  generous  sacrifice  he  made  of  the  pleasures  and  conveni- 
encies  of  this  life,  and  for  the  heroic  victory  he  gained  over  his  own  flesh  and 
blood."  He  was  born,  according  to  the  authority  we  quote,  of  rich  parents, 
and  married  to  a  lady  of  the  ^'  very  first  quality  ,'^  as  virtuous  as  she  was  beauti- 
ful; but  deserted  her  before,  or  immediately  after,  the  marriage  party  reached 
the  house  prepared  for  them,  on  account  of  his  great  virtue,  and  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  mortifying  himself,  and  asking  alms  at  a  certain  church  door;  the  which 
honorable  mode  of  gaining  a  livelihood  he  quitted  a  short  time  after  in  disgust, 
not  on  account  of  its  degradation,  but  oecause  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary  (to 
whom  he  was  especially  devoted),  became  too  talkative,  informing  the  congre- 
gation at  times  that  he  was  in  great  favor  with  God,  and  that  his  prayers  had 
much  influence  in  heaven;  at  others  calling  out  in  a  loud  voice  to  the  door- 
keeper of  the  church  to  **  come  and  open  the  door  and  let  the  favorite  servant 
of  God  enter,"  These  proceedings  on  the  part  of  the  Virgin  caused  such  fame 
to  grow  about  Alejo  that  he  felt  his  humility  in  danger,  and  therefore  deter- 
mined to  retire  from  public  life;  so,  in  the  guise  of  a  mendicant,  be  begged  to  be 
allowed  a  dirty  corner  below  the  stairs  in  hi3  own  house,  which  request  was 
granted.  "  Ht  was  thus  enabled  daily  to  see  his  wife  and  family,  and  know 
how  much  misery  they  suffered  by  his  absence,  and  once  jnore  gain  a  victory 
aver  himself  by  resisting  the  desire  to  throw  himself  into  their  arms."  All  of 
which  conduct  in  anybody  but  a  Saint  would  merit  a  hors«-whipping  or  a 
straight  waistcoat. 

Alejo  continued  to  occupy  his  obscure  corner,  unknown,  till  the  day  of  his 
death ;  and  there  (by  a  priest)  he  was  found  with  a  letter  in  his  hand,  the  which 
after  many  prayers  the  corpse  delivered  up.  The  house  in  which  he  died  was 
filled  with  a  wonderful  perfume ;  and  the  letter,  at  the  urgent  request  of  the 
multitude,  was  read  aloud.  It  set  forth  his  real  name  and  character,  and  ex- 
plained his  conduct  as  the  result  of  a  direct  command  from  God,  given  in  his 
ear  on  the  night  of  his  marriage.  All  the  sick  people  who  flocked  to  the  place 
became  instantly  well,  and  the  following  prayer  was  ordered  to  be  used  on  the 
seventeentli  of  July,  in  all  following  years  by  good  Christians: 

"  Oh  God  that,  year  by  year,  makes  us  solemnly  rejoice  at  the  good  fortune 
of  Alejo,  concede  to  us  the  po7ver  to  imitate  this,  thy  glorious  confessor,  whose 
birth  into  heaven  we  this  day  celebrate." 

What  would  the  dear  girls  say  if  such  conduct  should  become  general,  and 
bridegrooms  all  should  have  conceded  to  them  the  desire  to  become  Saints  upoo 
such  conditions? 


56  -S*/.  Alejo. 


The  priests  make  Alejo  flourish,  if  such  a  life  can  be  called  flourishing,  some 
years  earlier  than  the  date  of  our  tale,  but  the  documents  from  which  we  draw 
cur  facts  are  better  testified  to  than  those  cf  the  Fathers;  and  on  the  face  of 
them  bear  more  the  stamp  of  truth;  therefore,  not  until  we  ourselves  hear  their 
wooden  images  talk  shall  we,  for  a  moment,  admit  the  possibility  of  their  version 
of  his  Saintship's  life  and  death  being  the  correct  one;  but,  on  the  contrary,  shall 
uphold  our  own,  which  is  as  follows: 


Part  I. 

In  Spain,  in  those  glorious  days  of  old 

When  Dons  were  respected  and  rolling  in  gold; 

When  their  nation  (not  mortgaged  up  to  her  eyes) 

Drew  firmly  and  freely  for  liberal  supplies 

On  her  heretic  subjects  who  lived  over-seas, 

And  who  gave  her,  not  lent  her,  all  that  she  pleased, 

In  reverence,  not  fear,  for  that  noble  race. 

Her  sons,  whose  annals  no  crime  can  disgrace^ 

Being  blessed  with  minds  too  high  for  pollution; 

Yet,  fearing  a  speck,  they  took  daily  ablution 

In  a  laundry  divine,  long  started  and  kept 

For  the  cleansing  of  souls,  by  a  people  yclept 

Popes,  Bishops  and  Priests,  who  clear-starch  and  iron 

The  soul,  like  a  shirt  or  collar  you  tie  on. 

And  warrant  to  turn  it  out  speckless  and  white. 

However  befouled,  should  the  pay  but  requite ! 

In  those  times,  I'm  not  sure  if  in  Cadiz  or  Seville, 
Lived  one  Don  Alejo,  majestic  and  civil 
At  home,  but  abroad  he  had  fought  like  the  devil 
With  priests  and  with  heroes  (alas!  dead  and  gone!) 
Who,  following  the  chart  of  one  Christopher  Colon, 
Carried  war  in  the  name  of  Christ  and  religion 
'Gainst  King  Atahualpa,  his  chiefs  and  his  squaws. 
By  way  of  extending  the  learning  and  laws 
That  have  made  the  Priests  and  Bishops  of  Rome 
So  much  respected  abroad  and  at  home 
For  gentle  forbearance  and  father-like  care 
Which  they  show  all  mankind,  who,  as  they  declare, 


S/.  Alejo.  57 

Saint  Peter  consigned  to  them  and  their  Pope 
When  he  went  up  above,  Heaven's  portal  to  ope 
To  each  who  may  come,  the  happy  possessor 
Of  a  true  bill  of  health  from  a  Father  Confessor. 

In  those  times,  but  alas,  I  forget  in  whose  reign 

The  Church  looked  with  a  favorable  eye  upon  Spain, 

As  churchmen  can  look  when  there's  something  to  gain; 

So  sins  were  forgiven,  and  saints  were  made, 

And  poor  old  Nick  was  cast  quite  in  the  shade; 

While  Heaven  and  Rome  did  a  flourishing  trade, 

In  Dons  and  in  Donas,  Hidalgos,  grandees, 

And  in  all  kinds  of  people,  in  all  their  degrees. 

In  fact  there  blew  heavenward  quite  a  stiff  breeze; 

But  the  stiffest  of  all,  and  by  far  the  most  quaint, 

Was  the  making  poor  dead  Don  Alejo  a  Saint ! 

Now  Alejo,  the  sainted,  perchance  if  not  told 

Mayhap  you'll  confound  with  Alejo  the  bold; 

So  to  clear  up  the  question,  and  guesses  to  smother, 

We'll  proclaim  him  at  once  a  son  of  that  other. 

Or,  if  you  object,  why  the  son  of  a  mother 

Who  died  without  leaving  him  sister  or  brother. 

And  the  father  he  had  was  always  at  strife 

Till  he  died;  some  said  out  of  love  for  his  wife; 

A  second  one  this;  the  son  came  of  a  first. 

And  was  quietly  put  out  of  sight  to  be  nursed; 

So  knew  little  of  home,  its  joys  or  its  fears; 

In  fact,  as  men  say,  he  was  "tender  in  years" 

When  his  father  pegged  out  from  "this  valley  of  tears," 

And  left  him,  poor  boy,  to  the  love  and  protection 

Of  a  step-mother,  wanting  a  nearer  connection ! 

So  an  orphan  is  he. 

And  a  widow  is  she. 
And  of  course  looking  doleful  as  doleful  can  be. 
But  women  like  her  do  not  long  play  the  fool. 
And  quickly  she  packed  the  boy  off  to  his  school; 
5 


58  S/.  Alejo. 

Paid  the  masses  she'd  caused  to  be  sung  for  the  dead, 

With  a  Hberal  hand,  till  the  good  Bishop  said 

She  might  quietly  lay  herself  down  in  her  bed, 

And  know  there  was  nothing  left  under  that  head 

To  do.     And  so,  as  the  days  grew  to  weeks, 

The  roses  began  to  come  back  in  her  cheeks, 

So  nicely  laid  on,  pearl  white  and  rose  mixture, 

Just  such  as  you  see  in  a  dear  lovely  picture 

Called  "The  Month's  Fashions,"  and  published  in  France, 

To  teach  the  sweet  creatures  to  dress  for  a  dance, 

A  ride  or  a  walk,  or  a  short  morning  call, 

And  to  put  them  O.  K.  —  that  is,  up  to  all. 

New  trimmings  and  tuckers,  silks  and  such  stuff 

A  man  need  but  mention  to  prove  he's  a  muff; 

So  we'll  leave  them  alone,  and  at  once  we'll  proceed 

To  tell  of  things  far  more  important  indeed. 

Just  fancy  a  widow,  lovely  and  free, 
Oh,  as  lovely,  as  lovely,  as  ever  could  be, 
And  loving  of  course,  like  all  ladies  in  Spain^- 
See  Byron  (but  speak  to  him  never  again). 

Then  fancy  how  nice: 
How  years  pass  in  a  trice 
In  a  country  all  summer,  without  any  ice. 
To  a  lady  with  riches 

To  spend,  and  in  store, 
And  whose  smile  so  bewitches 

She  's  beaux  by  the  score. 

But  time,  as  all  the  sages  sing, 

Time,  time  is  ever  on  the  wing; 

Time  is,  time  was,  and  then  at  last 

Even  Bacon's  brass  head  knew  it  had  past; 
And  Isabel,  in  middle  youth, 
Learn'd  something  of  this  ugly  truth; 


S/.  Alejo.  59 

For  this  son,  that  to  her  was  never  born, 
Grown  into  man,  in  her  side  is  a  thorn; 
A  plague  spot  he  is,  defacing  her  day. 
Or  in  sight,  or  in  thought  if  out  of  her  way. 

With  questions  rude  he  troubles  her  sore. 

And  something  's  to  come  that  must  trouble  her  more; 

For  soon,  alas!  she  will  have  to  give  o'er' 

Nearly  all  the  large  fortune  of  silver  and  gold 

Won  by  Dear  Don  Alejo,  in  battle  so  bold, 

'Gainst  Incas  and  chiefs  in  his  youthful  pride. 

And  for  love  of  which  she  became  his  bride. 

Hard,  hard  it  will  seem  to  relinquish  a  part 

Of  a  fortune  that  won  the  whole  of  her  heart ! 

Oh;  that  bitter  pill  in  store  for  her  still, 

In  the  shape  of  an  unopened  note  to  the  will ! 

House,  land,  and  estate,  are  left  by  "the  late," 

To  his  only  son, 

In  case  he  should  marry,  or  reach  twenty-one; 
While  the  widow  dear,  with  many  a  tear. 
Will  have  to  receive  from  him  so  much  a  year ! 

The  blow  it  came,  and  found  her  game; 

"So  much,"  she  declared,  should  be  called  "so  little!" 

Hoped  he  might  choke  with  a  "mouthful  of  vittle," 

For  the  moment  a  tempest  raved  and  blew. 

And  then  to  her  Father  Confessor  she  flew. 

First  he  did  bless  her,  this  Father  Confessor, 

Then  asked  the  reason  why  she  at  that  season 

Had  come  to  consult  the  Church  and  the  Priest  ? 

Was  it  the  result  of  sin,  or,  at  least, 

Some  mistake  about  meat,  or  the  right  thing  to  eat  ? 

For  he  felt  quite  sure  that  one  so  demure 

Had  committed  no  crime  of  a  nature  so  grave. 

But  a  very  short  time  of  penance  would  save 

Her  soul  from  all  danger.     He  paused,. and  she  sighed, 

And  thus  replied : 


6o  S/.  Alejo. 

"  Father,  I  am  no  stranger 
To  you  or  your  church,  and  I  know  your  wits 
Leave  quite  in  the  kuxh  the  lawyers  and  cits 
In  giving  the  cue  what  a  woman  should  do 
When  the  poor  thing  's  bereft  of  her  husband,  and  left 
In  this  wicked  world,  all  day  and  all  night, 
Without  any  on^  near  to  pity  her  plight, 
So  I  come — I  come — " 

Here  she  stopped,  her  eyes  down  dropped; 
Looked  here,  looked  there;  bowed  was  her  head 
While  thus  the  pious  churchman  said: 
"  Daughter, 
The  priests  of  Rome  are  ever  at  home 

To  dry  the  widow's  tear; 
And  young  or  old,  for  love  or  gold, 
We  esteem  them  especially  dear; 
And  to  have  and  to  hold  their  souls,  we  are  bold ! 
'Gainst  devils  or  men,  our  Church — a  brave  one — 
Is  ready  to  save  from 

Slaughter 
All,  every  one,  'both  Jack  and  John,' 
As  school-boys  say,  in  their  random  way, 
When  out  at  play; 
So  please  to  begin — ^your  particular  sin  ?" 

She  screamed  out,  "  No  sin  of  hers  brought  her! 

Father, 
A  widower  would  a  wooing  go; 
He'd  houses  and  money  in  plenty  to  show. 
In  fact  was  a  prize  to  which  none  could  say  no! 

Rather 
Than  lose  such  a  chance,  any  girl  would  cry,  dance, 

Or  do  neither 
To  please  him  and  gain  her  just  ends, 
And  trust  to  the  future  to  make  her  amends. 


S/.  Alejo.  6 1 

So  I  played,  I  won!  Things  went  merrily  on! 

He  died;  I  saw  the  will  was  all  right, 

And  after  due  mourning  began  to  delight 

In  those  innocent  pastimes  a  free  widow  might; 

When  lo !  a  letter  left  for  his  son, 

To  be  opened  'when  he  was  twenty  and  one,' 

And  attached  to  the  will,  and  called  '  codicil,' 

Gives  his  house,  and  estate,  and  Dear  Father's  blessing, 

To  his  son  of ." 

"  Daughter,  it's  reaWy  distressing, 
But  cheer  up,  and  tell  me  if  all  would  well  be 

Should  this  son  of ,  so  blest,  become  non  est  ? 

Would  it  suit  your  books  if  he  went  off  the  hooks 
Ad  instante  P" 

"  Father,  it  would,  could,  and  should, 
(Oh  that  his  mother  had  miscarried) 
But  that  he's  soon,  too  soon,  to  be  married ; 
And  then^." 

"Well  daughter,  I'll  see  if  this  parried  can  be; 
Go  home;  leave  the  matter  entirely  to  me; 

And  when 
You've  left  me  to  think,  I  shall  hit  in  a  wink 
On  some  feasible  plan  to  nail  down  this  man. 
Who's  turned  out  such  a  bore,  and  by  Holy  Church  aid 
To  have  him  safe  laid  where  he'll  trouble  no  more  I " 

The  churchman,  with  an  air  sedate, 
Walked  up  and  down  to  meditate 
Upon  his  plan,  or,  perhaps,  his  pleasure; 
He  was  a  man  you  could  not  measure 
By  simple  rules:  he  spoke  so  bland, 
Smiled  benisons,  and  waved  his  hand 
As  if  it  were  a  sacred  wand 
Or  cross  of  peace  to  all  the  land ! 


62  S/.  Alejo. 

So  gentle,  kind,  and  debonnaire. 

As  priests  should  be,  and  as  they  were 
In  those  days  of  eld 
Ere  Luther  came  out,  with  schism  and  doubt, 
And  had  to  be  felled 
With  that  Papal  Bull  (of  the  Irish  breed) 
That  cracked  its  own  skull  against  its  own  creed. 
As  Rome  shook  her  "shilaley,"  crying  "Arrah!  by  Pat! 
Now  see  what  you'll  get  for  laving  the  hat!" 
Par  parenthesis,  still,  admit  it  you  will. 
Poor  Luther  just  did  get  it  hot  after  that. 
For  things  up  above  are  not  as  below, 
And  Peter  was  just  the  Saint  to  show 
To  a  very  warm  place,  a  son  of  high  treason. 
Who  talked  about  reason,  so  all  out  of  season, 
And  got  himself  into  disgrace! 

But  stop!  Let  me  see!  I  fear  I  digress. 

And  if  I'm  not  careful,  shall  get  in  a  mess 

With  this  tale  of  a  Saint — or  I  should  say,  rather, 

This  sketch  of  that  Father,  I'm  tiying  to  paint ! 

For  that's  where  we're  lost,  confounded  or  crossed 

In  our  tale.     But  to  him  again:  For  example — 

Of  his  Church  and  his  creed  all  held  him  a  sample; 

A  good  one,  and  doubtless  had  reasons  quite  ample. 

He  looked  young  for  his  years,  and   looked  well  to  his 

dress; 
Could  be  moved  e'en  to  tears  .by  the  tale  of  distress 
Which,  on  a  Friday  called  "good,"   he  told  with  such 

pathos 
One  feared  he'd  be  drowned  deep  in  his  own  bathos! 
But  no !  Like  the  ark  in  the  flood,  he  grounded  or  stood 
To  tell  o'er  his  beads,  his  matins  and  Paters, 
Such  as  those  you  may  hear  in  the  sweet  land  of  "taters;" 
Or  sweeter  one  still,  of  macaronian  eaters. 
Shaven  smooth,  soft  and  mellow,  this  priestly  good  fellow 


Sf.  Alejo,  63 

Was  fair  to  the  sight — like  bright  days  in  spring, 
Or  the  flowers  they  bring,  or  a  starlit  night, 

With  no  cloud  in  sight  1 
All  Ave  Marias,  and  a  sunset  glow. 
Was  the  manner  of  man  hung  out  for  show. 
Of  thumb-screws,  and  racks,  and  ugly  boot^jackg, 
And  dungeons  dark,  where  one  don't  hear  the  lark 
Or  see  sunlight  or  day,  or  get  much  fair  play-— 

He  had  nothing  to  say; 
(Like  his  Church),  till  for  uses,  and  to  keep  down  abuses. 
He  sought  inquisition,  and  showed  requisition 
For  trifles  like  these,  to  aid  his  own  ends, 
Or  the  Church's,  or,  sometimes,  for  some  of  his  friends! 
Whatever  the  need,  ends  justify  means! 
Who  thinks  of  the  seed  when  the  harvest  teems  ? 
And  in  hopes  of  promotion,  or  for  love  or  devotion, 
He  had  taken  the  notion  the  widow's  money  to  save- 
But  the  how,  and  the  where?  He  sat  down  in  his  chair, 
Looked  uncommonly  grave,  yet  determined  and  brave. 
Whilst  his  spirit  seemed  taken,  and  roughly  shaken 
By  some  dreadful  thought  against  which  he  fought, 
But  in  vain,  all  in  vain!  The  proof  was  too  plain; 
And  conviction,  at  last,  to  his  soul  was  borne, 
When  he  started  and  winced  as  if  pricked  by  a  thorn, 
Frowned,  muttered,  and  said :  "  I  dare  to  be  sworne 
To  our  Church  and  our  creed — he 's  false,  and  that 's  why 
For  the  widow  I  felt  so  much  sympathy ! 
Saint  Anthony,  thanks !  you  have  given  the  cue, 
I  am  fully  convinced,  and  know  just  what  to  do. 

Part  H. 

Oh,  Love!  But  ah,  the  tale  's  been  told 

So  often,  that  we  fear  to  touch  it; 
And  yet,  a  rhymster  must  be  bold ! 

Although  my  verse  may  smutch  it, 


64  S/.  Alejo. 

I  really  must  sing  of  true  love 

A  tale  so  very  thrilling, 
That  even  the  holy  Saints  above 

To  read  it  may  be  willing; 
If  not,  why  let  them  still  proceed 

Chanting  their  "Hallelujah"  chorus. 
Each  doing  that  which  is  decreed — 

We  sing  the  song  as  laid  before  us! 

Know  ye  the  land  whence  the  orange  and  nut 
Are  shipped  to  our  shores  for  the  Christmas  time  ? 

Where  hazel  eyes  languishing  sweetly,  put 
Painters  and  poets  in  raptures  sublime  ? 

It  is  there,  it  is  there!  The  land  of  the  Don, 
The  Dona,  Hidalgo,  and  other  great  names. 

Where  priestcraft  and  anarchy  ever  live  on, 

In  the  deeds  of  her  sons,  and  the  hearts  of  her  dames; 
It  is  there,  it  is  there,  you  must  go  with  me 
In  the  year  of  our  Lord,  one,  five,  seven,  three  1 

A  lovely  girl  and  boy 

Played  in  those  days  together; 
And  life  was  full  of  joy. 

And  it  was  summer  weather! 
But  as  they  grew  in  years, 

Stern  fate  them  separated; 
Of  course  they  shed  some  tears. 

And  each  felt  desolated. 

They  swore  a  vow  at  parting — 

A  heart's  deep  vow  they  swore 
(Their  love  grim  strength  imparting) 

That  they  would  meet  once  more; 
By  deep,  deep  love  they  swore  it, 

And  it  wrought  like  flame  to  fuel- 
That  each  one  would  ignore  it. 

That  parents's  order  cruel  1 


S/.  Alejo.  65 

"  Go,  get  you  to  a  nunnery !  To  a  nunnery  go, 

And  mind  your  education,  for  I  will  have  it  so!" 

Said  this  parent  stern  and  grand  to  the  daughter  of  that 

land 
Famed  for  oranges  and  eyes,  and  men  more  turbulent 

than  wise; 
And  so  my  lady  went,  and,  to  make  her  still  more  steady, 
He  added,  "  When  you  are  seventeen,  I  have  your  hus- 
band ready!" 


In  the  convent  walls,  both  high  and  holy, 
Among  the  sisterhood  so  meek  and  lowly, 

The  maiden  learns  to  kneel  and  pray, 
And  hears  of  virgins,  martyrs,  saints. 

Who  kept  bad  passions  so  at  bay 
That,  though  of  earth,  earth  scarcely  taints 

The  history  of  their  lives  while  clay. 

With  pure  companions  by  her  side. 
And  such  bright  precepts  for  her  guide, 

How  can  she  go  astray? 
She  looks  from  the  iron  lattice  strong; 

Deep  thought  is  on  her  brow: 
The  passing  years  have  seemed  so  long, 

But  they're  nearly  ended  now! 

She  pictures  the  days  to  come  with  glee. 
When  she  shall  be  out,  and  once  more  free, 
Away  from  the  nuns,  and  their  nunnery; 
And  one  might  conclude,  from  the  "hems!"  and  the 
"ahs!" 
The  slight  innuendos  and  sundry  shirks. 
That,  while  she  recalls  these  angels,  in  bars, 
Now  half  flashes  out,  now  inwardly  lurks 
In  voice,  eyes,  and  shoulders,  that  this  daughter  of  Eve 


66  S/.  Alejo. 

Would  hint  to  beholders,  and  have  them  believe 
All  was  not  so  pious,  so  pure,  and  devout 
When  you  got  inside  as  you'd  pictured  when  out ! 
She  "can't  understand"  what  the  Holy  Mother 
Has  still  to  arrang^e  with  that  handsome  lay  brother, 
Who  came  from  the  monastery  far  away. 
And  who  asked  but  to  rest  for  a  night  and  a  day ! 

She  "can't  Understand"  why  Sister  Jane 
Takes  up  two  hours  in  her  confession; 

Or  why  Father  Joseph  comes  again 

At  night  to  show  her  the  next  day's  lesson. 

She  "can't  understand"  why  it  is  that  the 
Poor  sisters  and  plain,  like  Sophy  and  Patty, 
Need  scarcely  five  minutes  of  time  to  confess, 
To  get  absolution,  and  turn  up  at  mess; 
While  Isabel,  Jane,  or  IMary,  beginning 
In  the  earliest  morning  to  tell  of  their  sinning, 
Can  never  get  through  till  the  convent  bell 
Warns  each  Father  Confessor  to  go  to  his  cell 
She  thinks  it  seems  odd,  then  wonders  again 
If  rich  pretty  girls  sin  more  than  the  plain ! 

The  eventful  day  at  last  arrives! 

A  finished  woman  in  mind  and  heart, 

Educated  to  make  the  best  of  wives, 
And  fitted  to  take  a  leading  part 
In  love,  or  intrigue,  or  whatever  may  be 
Considered  the  thing  to  win  her  degree 
In  the  world,  'mongst  sisters  worth  rivalry, 
She  goes  to  shine  and  make  a  name, 
A  girl  of  spirit  bent  upon  fame. 
Her  beauty  shall  be  the  talk  of  all; 
And  men  before  her  in  crowds  shall  fall ! 
Her  Father  may  preach,  and  preach  his  fill; 
Let  him !  a  woman  that  will,  she  imlU 


S/.  Alefo.  67 

And  determined  she  goes  to  enjoy  her  day, 
And  not  to  be  tamely  given  away! 
Shut  up  for  years  from  dayhght  till  morrow, 
She  thinks  she  has  had  quite  enough  of  sorrow, 
And  learning,  and  snubbing,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
And  now  she's  determined  to  "have  her  fling!" 

She  arrives  at  home,  and  the  stately  old  Don,  . 

Her  Father,  admires  her  beyond  expressing; 
Gives  her  "carte  blanche"  to  get  things  to  put  on 

(For  Spaniards  are  all  of  them  fond  of  dressing); 
So  to  shopping  she  goes,  not  a  moment  she  yields 

To  her  jeweler,  draper,  dressmaker,  or  maid. 
Till  she  's  ready,  aye  ready!  to  take  the  field. 

Armed  at  all  points;  no  task  must  be  stayed. 

In  less  than  a  month  her  wardrobe  completed, 
And  she  in  her  boudoir  all  quietly  seated. 
Debating  what  dress  she  shall  wear  for  the  ball— 
The  first  of  the  season  (her  first  one  of  all !) — 
Her  maid  comes  to  say  that,  in  his  own  quarter. 
Her  papa  would  speak  a  few  words  to  his  daughter. 
A  moment  she  stays,  just  to  gather  her  wits, 
And  then,  like  a  sylph,  down  the  stairs  she  flits; 
The  next  at  her  father's  feet  she  is  kneeling. 
And  asking  his  will,  with  a  face  full  of  feeling. 
As  if  he  had  only  to  make  his  will  known 
To  find  it  in  all  correspond  with  her  own! 
He  praises  the  school  that  has  taught  her  such  duty, 
And  obedience,  he  says,  has  doubled  her  beauty. 
Then  she  speaks  of  Alejo,  to  whom  she  is  plighted, 
And  her  forthcoming  marriage,  at  which  he's  delighted^ 
Recommends  her  to  dance  with  none  else  at  the  ball, 
And  she  smirks,  bows,  and  seems  to  agree  to  it  all; 
But  if  he  could  read  what  she's  thinking  the  while. 
He'd  perhaps  put  on  the  frown,  and  put  off  the  smile! 


68  S/.  Alejo. 

What  Jesuit  men  mean,  is  pretty  hard  spelling, 

But  what  Jesuit  women,  lies  far  beyond  telling! 

Thus  deluded  papa  his  dear  patron  saint  blesses, 

And  she  returns  to  her  room  and  her  dresses; 

Once  there,  she  smiles  sweetly,  and  looks  in  the  glass. 

And  asks  it—"  Who  knows  what  may  yet  come  to  pass  ?" 

Married  riches  and  freedom,  may  perhaps— -she  can't  tell — 

Suit  her  plans:  if  so,  then  all  may  be  well. 

It  depends  on  Alejo;  if  he's  easy  to  rein. 

Not  jealous,  or  stupid,  or  prying,  or  vain 

Of  himself,  but  in  all  things  inclined  to  hand  over 

The  rights  of  a  wife,  to  adore  her  and  love  her. 

And  be  blind  to  all  faults  in  herself  and  her  friends 

(Of  whatever  sex),  and  to  make  her  amends 

For  the  time  she's  been  shut  up  from  freedom  and  light, 

And  her  dear  Don  Alfonso — -why,  perhaps  she'll  requite 

Both  him  and  her  father,  by  giving  her  hand 

And  the  rights  to  obey  her — ^but  not  to  command !) 

.    The  ball  is  over,  her  course  is  clear,— 
Not  to  marry  Alejo  for  millions  a  year! 
A  brute  and  a  beast,— a  bore  of  a  man 
Who  dared  to  preach, — ^ay,  even  to  plan 
On  the  very  first  night  a  humdrum  life, 
And  express  delight  should  he  find  his  wife 
Or  thus,  or  thus,  as  his  humors  prevail. 
Making  man  the  head,  and  woman  the  tail: — 
She  laughs,  ha,  ha !     Let  her  first  be  caught, 
And  afterwards  trained  to  divine  his  thought. 

"But,  dear  Don  Alfonso!— how  handsome  he'd  grown!" 
His  was  the  heart  just  cut  out  for  her  own! 
Whatever  she  wished,  thought,  did,  or  could  do. 
She  was  perfect  to  him,  and  he  worshipped  her,  too; 
As  woman  should  always  be  worshipped  before 
Consenting  to  enter  as  wife  at  the  door 


S/.  Akjo.  69 

Of  any  man's  house; — for,  as  sure  as  the  day, 
If  not  worshipped  thus  there's  the  devil  to  pay: — 
Rows,  wrangHngs,  disgust  last  of  all,  and  of  course 
Marriage  ends  in  elopement,  or  else  in  divorce! 

Then  that  sister  of  Al's — Alejo's  half  mother, 

Or  father's  widow — so  like  to  her  brother 

In  face,  temper,  and  kindness,  she  too  was  nice, 

Not  too  old,  nor  too  young,  and  made  friends  in  a  trice. 

For  companion,  duenna, — whatever  may  be 

The  name  of  the  matron,  who  stands  guarantee 

For  a  girl  just  out,  she  would  suit  to  a  "T." 

With  Alfonso  for  slave,  herself  his  queen. 

The  world  for  a  play-place,  Isabel  for  a  screen. 

Protector  or  guide,  when  feelings  should  range, 

And  both,  getting  bored,  should  desire  a  change 

In  places  and  faces: — (for  as  Isabel  proved, 

Monotony  sullied  the  pleasures  of  love; 

And  nothing  gave  tone  to  life  like  variety; 

And  a  change  now  and  then  in  one's  daily  society:) 

A  life  like  this,  she  thinks  worth  the  living, 

And  so,  goes  to  bed  without  any  misgiving ! 

Now,  whether  her  night  passed  in  sleeping  or  dreaming, 

Waking  and  watching,  contriving  or  scheming, 

The  historian  leaves  us  all  here  in  the  lurch, 

But  tells  of  her  rising  and  going  to  church, 

Like  a  pious  young  lady,  to  pray  and  confess, 

(As  all  Catholics  do  when  they  get  in  a  mess !) 

Her  dress  was  black,  and  in  fashion  quite  simple, 

And  her  face  spoke  resolve  in  its  every  dimple. 

Of  course,  if  we  knew,  we  dared  not  unfold 

The  advice  that  was  given,  the  tale  that  was  told 

By  the  priest,  or  the  lady,  passed  under  the  seal 

Of  the  sacred  confession;  who  dares  to  reveal 

A  word  or  a  thought  ?     But  this  we  may  tell, 


70  S/.  Alejo. 

Since  all  was  made  public,  as  it  befell, 

The  lady  went  home  from  the  church  that  morn 

Not  only  absolved,  but  as  if  new  born; 

Agreed  with  her  father  to  name  the  day, 

And  spoke  of  Alejo  without  dismay, — 

In  fact,  in  a  pitying,  tender  way; 

Then  begged  her  papa  (which  won  him  quite), 

In  drawing  her  papers,  to  see  them  all  right. 

And  her  dowry  so  fixed,  that,  let  come  what  might, 

She  could  not  be  left,  or  poor,  or  in  need— 

For  fhai  she  felt  would  be  dreadful  indeed ! 

A  word  orlwo  more:  the  scene  came  to  an  end. 

And  she  dressed,  and  went  out  to  call  on  her  friend. 

Now,  an  English  maiden  is  given  away 

'Neath  the  beams  of  the  sun,  and  in  face  of  the  day, 

And  counts  herself  happy  if  on  her  a  ray 

Of  his  golden  splendor  falls,  like  a  blessing, 

As  she  leaves  the  church,  where  'mid  sobs  and  caressing, 

For  the  last  time  she  signed  the  name  of  her  youth, 

As  she  swore  to  her  husband  obedience,  truth. 

And  love,  and  fidelity,  leaving  all  else  behind  her 

Except  this  new  duty,  as  her  name  must  remind  her. 

But  her  sister  in  Spain  declares  for  the  night, 

And,  in  place  of  the  sun,  chooses  wax  for  the  light 

To  brighten  the  scene  while  she's  plighting  her  troth. 

And  she  don't  lose  her  own  name — indeed,  she  takes  both; 

Her  husband's  she  wears  or  discards  as  it  pleases. 

Or  perhaps,  as  it  flatters  her  fancy,  or  teases 

Her  mind,  with  suggestions  of  the  tyrant  or  slave 

She  cajoles  with,  or  fights  with,  when,  determined  and  brave 

She  asserts  her  own  rights,  to  flirt,  dance,  dress  and  mingle 

With  whom  she  may  please,  since  she's  married,  not  single^ 

Her  mother,  thank  heaven,  did  not  bring  forth  a  fool, 

And,  the  saints  be  praised !  she  no  more  needs  a  school 

Or  a  master  to  teach  what  is  due  to  her  station, 

The  name  she  was  born  with,  or  her  place  in  the  nation. 


S/.  Alej'o.  71 

What  must  be,  will  be !  The  marriage  night 

Is  come  at  last,  and  the  tapers  burn  bright. 

The  guests  assemble,  the  priests  are  ready, 

Father,  bridegroom  and  all,  wait  to  welcome  the  lady  1 

The  rites,  of  course,  are  performed  at  home; 

Since  few  of  distinction  belonging  to  Rome 

Go  to  church,  save  for  mass,  and  (at  times)  confession, — • 

Just  when  they've  committed  a  little  digression 

In  honesty,  honor,  in  love,  or  what  not, 

Which  happens  at  times  where  passions  are  hot, 

And  which  trouble  the  Catholic  mind  with  a  doubt 

Until  declared  to  be  duly  wiped  out 

By  gifts  to  the  church  and  the  saint  who  pleads 

In  heaven's  high  court,  to  annul  misdeeds,- — 

(Ho!  Judges  of  earth!  From  this  take  example — ■ 

Not  vainly  he  pleads,  when  the  fee  is  ample !) 

But  lo !  In  clouds  of  lace  descending, 

Comes  the  bride  and  takes  her  stand ! 
With  her  bridesmaids  round  her  bending- 

And  Isabel  at  her  right  hand. 
Perhaps  she  looks  a  little  pale, 

Trembles,  and  is  heard  to  sigh; 
Still  her  response  does  not  fail, 

Nor  is  she  weak  enough  to  cry. 

All  is  over  and  done !     The  die  is  cast. 

They  are  wedded,  and  joined  together  so  fast 

That  only  the  Pope — unless  the  priest  lied — - 

Can  undo  the  bond  by  which  they  are  tied ! 

All  is  over  and  done!     But  the  bridegroom  seems 

Like  a  man  half  lost  in  a  sea  of  dreams ! 

W^hat  does  it  mean }     How  ?     Wherefore  and  why  ? 

Has  the  widow  her  finger  got  into  the  pie  ? 

It  bodes  him  no  good ;  nor  can  he  explain. 


72  S/.  Alejo. 

Tho'  he  ponders  and  pauses,  and  ponders  again, 
How  change  so  miraculous  came  in  a  day, 
Upon  mother  and  wife!  Is  it  real  or  but  play? 
His  mother  knows  well  that  now  he  can  take — 
After  the  marriage  she's  helped  him  to  make — 
The  estate  that  was  left  by  his  father's  will; 
She  knows  that  he  can,  and  knows  that  he  will; 
As  sure  as  the  day  dawns  after  the  night, 
Claim  all  that  is  his!     He  swears  by  the  light. 
Knowing  that  cannot  fail,  tho'  other  things  might. 

Oh,  Alejo,  my  boy !  there  are  dungeons  in  Spain 

That  even  God's  sunlight  looks  for  in  vain! 

And  many's  the  man  who  has  lived  till  the  day, 

But  who  felt  not,  who  saw  not,  a  single  ray 

Of  light,  in  the  place  where  the  churchmen  decreed 

His  impious  carcass  should  suffer  and  bleed. 

If  he  were  but  denounced  as  false  to  their  creed. 

In  secret  they  met,  in  silence  they  wrought. 
Doing  just  as  they  pleased,  if  not  as  they  ought; — 
Those  fathers  of  Rome,  in  their  snug  little  way 
Swept  men,  like  cobwebs,  down  in  their  day; 
In  religion,  in  riches,  in  love,  they  admitted 
No  rivals,  nor  ever  were  known  to  have  pitied 
A  victim  condemned  to  rack  or  to  stake. 
Equally  partial  were  they  to  broil  or  to  bake 
To  burn,  or  to  blister,  or  starve  in  dark  cells. 
Whoso  doubted  their  creeds,  or  courted  their  belles. 
And  Alejo,  alas !  was  accused  by  the  priest. 
It  might  be  of  both  crimes,  but  one  at  the  least 
Could  be  proved  to  his  face;  for  he,  in  his  youth 
Neglected  and  lonely,  had  doubted  the  truth 
Of  the  saints,  and  even  the  sweet  Virgin  Mary, 
He  said,  had  small  care  for  the  sad  and  the  weary, 
Since  he'd  prayed  so  long  that  his  mother  and  teachers 


S/.  Alejo.  73 

Might  be,  by  the  saints,  the  virgin,  or  preachers. 
Moved  to  pity  an  orphan  sick  and  in  pain. 
He  had  prayed  till  he  felt  his  prayers  were  in  vain, 
And  then  prayed  no  more. 

And  this  was  the  wretch, 
Who  (unless  Holy  Church  a  point  would  stretch), 
Must  wrest  from  the  widow,  with  heretic  greed. 
Riches  not  more  her  own  than  the  church's  at  need ! 
Holy  Fathers  of  Rome !  can  you  see  such  a  sight  ? 
Ho !  dungeon,  rack,  thumbscrew, — where  is  your  might  ? 
Defenders  of  weakness,  protectors  of  right! 
A  widow  appeals!     Do  you  pity  her  plight  ? 
Then  sign,  seal  the  doom  of  Alejo  this  night ! 

:^        :f(i        if.  if.       if.        if.  if.        if        if 

The  supper  is  ended;  the  dancing  flags; 

The  guests  seem  weary;  the  music  drags. 

It  is  time  to  escort  the  bridegroom  and  bride 

To  the  house  where,  in  future,  they  side  by  side 

In  concord  so  holy,  in  love  so  divine, 

Shal,I  know  no  division  of  "  mine  and  thine," 

But  each  to  the  other  be  all  in  all 

In  joy  or  in  sorrow,  as  fortune  may  fall. 

They  assemble,  they  start!     The  bride's  first  at  the  door 
With  her  friend,  and  the  bridesmaids  mentioned  before. 
But  the  bridegroom  tarries.     What  may  this  mean  ? 
With  whom  did  he  leave  ?     When  last  was  he  seen  ? 
Are  questions  passed  quickly  from  one  to  another, 
As  they  wait  at  the  door  of  the  widow,  his  mother. 
Who'd  petitioned  he'd  give,  ere  she  quitted  the  place 
She  had  loved  as  a  wife,  as  a  widow  had  graced, 
A  few  days  to  arrange  her  new  home  and  affairs. 
Before  being  politely  shown  down  her  own  stairs. 

He  came  not  with  morning!     He  came  not  next  night! 

Without  notice  or  warning,  he'd  passed  from  their  sight ! 
6 


74  S/.  Alejo. 

He  spoke  with  two  men,  a  few  yards  from  the  door 
Of  his  new  father's  house,  and  was  seen  no  more. 
***  ***  *** 

Oh,  the  mistletoe  bough,  and  the  Baron's  Hall, 
With  its  missing  bride,  and  frantic  groom  1 

Isabel,  as  a  parallel  case,  doth  recall 

While  sipping  her  chocolate,  in  her  own  room;— 

But  the  future,  she  feels,  wdll  clear  up  this  new  mystery, 
And  by  means  as  romantic,  reveal  the  whole  history. 

Part  III. 

The  nine  days  of  wonder  and  speculation, 
Of  doubting,  guessing,  and  calculation, 
Have  passed,  and  Alejo,  surnamed  the  erratic, 
Is  heard  of  no  more  in  parlor  or  attic. 
Isabel  mother,  Victoria  wife, 
Are  settling  into  their  paces,  and  life 
Assumes  for  each  one  an  aspect  serene, 
As  if  no  such  person  had  troubled  the  scene. 

For  one  dead,  a  year  must  be  given  to  grief. 

After  which,  the  mourners  may  seek  relief 

In  pastime  and  travel,  company,  change, — 

In  anything  pleasant,  or  anything  strange. 

Each  in  her  own  way,  our  heroine's  pay 

This  tribute,  which  custom  levies  on  all 

For  losing  their  "nearest  and  dearest  of  all!" 

Their  part  by  each  was  duly  enacted. 

And  nothing  forgotten,  and  nothing  contracted; — 

They  wished  him  dead,  and  plunged  into  woe, 

Trusting  the  world  would  believe  him  so. 

Their  friend  the  priest  and  Alfonso  dear 

Were  there  to  assist,  to  comfort  and  cheer, 

And  were  very  attentive  by  night  and  by  day 

In  helping  the  ladies  to  keep  up  the  play. 


S/.  Alejo.  75 

Can  you  fancy  the  sun  by  a  blanket  shaded, 
Till  with  hot  indignation  he  burns  and  broils  ? 

Till,  deeming  his  power  defied  or  degraded. 

He  puts  forth  his  brightest,  and  thus  the  foe  foils  ? 

So,  after  their  year  of  seclusion  and  doubt. 

This  sweet  maiden-wife,  and  the  widow  forlorn, 

Burst  on  the  world,  at  ball,  bull-fight  and  rout, 
To  dazzle,  eclipse,  to  delight  and  adorn. 

With  envy  and  rage,  all  the  women  behold  them. 

And  their  husbands,  beaux,  lovers,  swelling  their  train; 

With  no  one  to  check,  to  chide,  or  to  scold  them, 
Crowned  queens  of  beauty  and  fashion  they  reign ! 

But  alas!     In  this  world  there's  nothing  abiding! 

Or  flowing  toward  us,  or  ebbing  away, 
Life's  tides,  like  the  ocean's,  growing,  subsiding, 

Work  something  of  change  in  us  every  day ! 

Thus  our  brilliant  Victoria,  after  a  time. 
Lost  all  her  taste  for  flirting  and  dressing; 

Seemed  strangely  to  sicken,  to  pale,  and  to  pine. 
Until  her  state  became  really  distressing! 

Alfonso's  brow  also  was  shaded  and  gloomy, 

The  widow,  at  times,  looked  puzzled  and  strange, 

The  priest  found  the  atmosphere  lowering  and  loomy, 
And  vainly  guessed  at  a  cause  for  the  change ! 

But  the  secret  will  soon  become  patent  to  all; 

(It  is  one  of  those  secrets  revealed  in  a  life !) 
Oh !  her  dear  reputation  must  go  to  the  wall, 

For  a  child's  to  be  born  to  our  virgin-wife ! 

When  Isabel  learned  the  cause  of  her  grief, 
She  scolded  Dame  Nature,  by  way  of  relief. 
It  was  shameful,  she  said,  and  wrong  indeed, 


76  SV.  Akjo. 

To  send  forth  a  child  without  any  need  ; 
But  this,  she'd  noticed,  was  always  the  way, — 
Where  children  were  wanted,  she  kept  them  away ! 
She  sent  some  too  soon  and  was  too  late  with  others, 
And  often  mistook  in  selecting  the  mothers. 
Who,  having  no  will,  voice  or  vote  in  the  question. 
Should  be  held  free  from  blame,  if  not  indigestion ! 

At  last,  when  her  rage  was  somewhat  suppressed, 

She  quietly  went  to  her  room,  and  was  dressed; 

And  the  colors  she  chose  told  Victoria  plain 

She  was  going  to  consult  her  confessor  again ! 

She  came  back  an  hour  after,  and,  highly  delighted. 

Appeared  to  consider  the  question  as  righted; 

Bade  Victoria  prepare  for  a  second  wedding 

Which  (unlike  the  first),  could  not  fail  in  the  bedding; 

Since,  that  much  of  the  contract  already  completed, 

It  remained  but  to  hope  dear  Alfonse  was  not  cheated ! 

Victoria  looked  down,  but  nothing  replied. 

And  her  cheeks  with  the  sweetest  of  blushes  were  dyed; 

At  length,  turning  pale,  she  asked,  under  her  breath, 

By  what  means  she  should  prove  her  first  husband's  death  ? 

Since  Rome,  in  such  questions,  was  strict  in  her  laws, — 

And  (knowing  the  ladies  of  Spain)  perhaps  had  cause! 

Laughed  Isabel  then  (her  voice  rang  like  a  bell). 

As  she  cheerly  assured  her  that  all  would  go  well, 

Not  only  with  her,  but  one  more  should  be  blest, 

And  Alejo,  poor  man!  should  be  fully  redressed! 

***  sit**  *** 

Unshaven,  unwashed,  and  all  tatters  and  dirt, 
A  poor  mis'rable  wretch  nothing  cheered  or  could  hurt, 
On  the  first  wedding  night,  in  the  whirl  of  affairs, 
Found  a  kind  of  a  shakedown  under  their  stairs. 
He'd  strolled  in,  like  others,  if  not  to  the  feast, 
Hoping  perhaps  for  some  trifle, — expecting  at  least 


-5"/.  Alejo.  77 

That  wine  would  be  served  to  the  mob  at  the  door, — 
And  he  craved  for  the  wine,  should  he  get  nothing  more. 
The  place  he  discovered  when  all  was  dismay, 
And  he  deemed  it  wise  to  get  out  of  the  way; 
But,  liking  his  lodgings,  he  stopped  till  next  day. 
And  the  next;  and  when  he  crept  forth  to  the  air 
Was  surprised  that  none  asked  his  right  to  be  there. 
Poor  Isabel !  Ah !  in  her  grief,  it  might  pain  her 
To  be  questioned  or  spoke  to !     So  this  dirty  retainer 
Lived  on,  and  crept  in  or  crept  out  like  a  mouse. 
Till  the  servants  all  thoiight  he  belonged  to  the  house. 

One  morning,  a  perfume,  ambrosial  and  rich, 

Embalsomed  the  mansion  in  every  niche; 

Not  the  sweetest  of  flowers  ever  distilled, 

Not  the  sweetest  of  wood  ever  burned,  could  have  filled 

The  house  with  a  scent  so  divinely  enchanting, 

So  suggestive  of  heaven  and  angels  when  chanting. 

Oh,  whence  could  it  come  ?  and  oh,  what  could  it  mean  ? 

Were  they  sleeping  or  waking,  or  all  in  a  dream  ? 

It- was  strangely  delicious!     They  scarcely  felt  mortal 

Who  breathed  but  the  air  that  escaped  at  the  portal ! 

High  and  low  did  they  search,  but  discovered  no  reason 

In  their  bottles  of  scent  or  the  flowers  of  the  season; 

And  all  vainly  they  asked  whence  it  came,  what  it  meant, 

Till  the  story  got  wind,  and  the  Church  kindly  sent 

A  priest,  charged  to  examine  and  then  to  report 

If  the  miracle  came  from  God,  as  it  ought; 

Or  whether  the  devil,  at  his  old  tricks  again. 

Was  trying  once  more  to  get  footing  in  Spain ! 

But  long  ere  this,  a  great  crowd  had  collected 

In  the  street  and  the  house;  and  the  people  expected 

Nothing  short  of  a  miracle,  fresh  from  the  mint 

Where  such  fables  are  coined  ere  they  come  out  in  print. 

And  as  tarried  the  father,  so  holy  and  learn'd, 


78  S/.  Alejo. 

Still  deeper  and  stronger  expectancy  burned 

In  the  hearts  of  the  watchers,  and  prophecy  grew 

And  spake  full  from  the  lips  of  that  motley  crew. 

"An  angel  or  saint  from  the  Virgin,  no  other, 

Had  come  to  console  the  fond  wife  and  the  mother." 

Conviction  grew  stronger  each  time  it  was  stated. 

And  the  priest  for  his  dalliance  louder  was  rated. 

Weak  and  pallid,  as  if  from  long  prayer  and  long  fast. 

And  muttering  and  crossing  himself,  he  goes  past. 

With  the  choristers  chanting  around  him  a  hymn, 

And  the  stars  coming  forth,  and  the  light  growing  dim. 

On  the  threshold  he  pauses,  prays,  staggers,  and  falls. 

As  devoutly  on  Christ  and  the  Virgin  he  calls. 

O'erpowered  by  the  odor,  he  feels  himself  faint, 

And  knows  by  his  instinct  he's  nearing  a  saint. 

He  enters  the  house,  but  ascends  not  a  stair — 

The  presence  he  seeks  must  be  sought  for;  and  there. 

He  points  to  the  corner  in  which  the  poor  wretch, 

On  the  night  of  the  marriage,  his  limbs  chose  to  stretch ! 

They  open  the  door: — Lo!  a  rich  flood  of  light 

Pours  out,  to  attest  that  the  churchman  is  right. 

They  enter,  start,  scream — what  is  this  meets  their  sight  ? 

'Tis  Alejo — clothed  just  as  he  came  from  the  ball, — 

But  his  face  is  a  sight  to  shock,  petrify  all ! 

So  gaunt  and  so  ghastly,  the  lines  by  death  fixed: — 

Each  pulse  was  stopped  and  each  eye  transfixed 

As  they  gazed  at  that  wreck  of  humanity,  spread 

On  the  rags  of  the  beggar,  as  if  for  a  bed ! 

In  the  hands  of  the  corpse,  see,  a  letter  is  lying; 

The  priest  kneels,  takes  it  up: — 'Twas  written  when  dying 

By  Alejo,  and  tells  how  God  spake  in  his  ear 

And  inspired  him  with  virtue,  and  bade  him  forbear 

To  gratify  lust;  to  leave  wife,  wealth,  and  take 

The  form  of  a  beggar,  and  yet  farther  to  make 


S/.  Alejo.  79 

An  essay  of  virtue  to  dwell  'neath  her  roof, 

To  see,  hear,  and  not  speak,  but  keep  ever  aloof 

Until  death.   Such  the  letter,  and  none  seemed  to  doubt  it — 

(Or,  if  any  one  did,  they  said  nothing  about  it.) 

'Mongst  the  crowd  of  the  curious  who  flocked  to  the  scene, 

Were  many  whose  health  bill  was  not  overclean; 

But  the  sight  and  the  smell  of  so  sacred  a  corpse 

Was  found  efficacious;  and,  as  matter  of  course. 

Pilgrims  by  hundreds  came  from  far  and  from  near. 

And  the  cures  that  were  wrought  proved  his  saintship  quite 

clear. 
So  the  Pope  was  appealed  to — at  once  gave  consent, — 
Canonized  him  in  Rome  on  the  first  day  of  Lent; 
After  which  he'd  a  church  built,  by  "  patrons,"  I  wist, 
And  our  heroines'  names  proudly  headed  the  list. 

Isabel  was  delighted,  and  showed  to  each  friend 

How  her  words,  on  that  night,  had  come  true  in  the  end. 

And  Alejo  the  lost, — the  deajr  saint  that  was  now, 

Had  left  a  romance,  like  the  mistletoe  bough! 

To  go  into  mourning,  she  said,  would  seem  treason; 

For  if  ever  a  mother  and  wife  had  good  reason 

To  thank  God  and  the  Virgin  for  special  behest, 

'Twas  the  wife  and  the  mother  of  Alejo  the  blest ! 

Besides,  they  had  mourned,  as  the  world  was  aware, 

When  he  first  disappeared,  and  were  plunged  in  despair; 

But  now,  his  fate  known,  they  felt  such  a  relief 

That  joy  would  come  natural,  'stead  of  deep  grief — 

And  more  still.     The  two  lovers,  now  free  to  unite, 

Had  named  not  the  day,  but  appointed  the  night; 

And  Victoria  felt  anxious  at  once  to  be  bound. 

As  her  time  became  short  and  her  figure  grew  round; 

Lest  the  chapter  of  fate  should  place  her  with  others. 

Who,  without  being  wives,  have  yet  become  mothers ! 


8o  S/.  Alejo. 

So,  in  place  of  black  crape,  of  tears,  sighs  and  sorrow, 
Our  ladies  were  dressed  in  white  silk  on  the  morrow; 
When  Alfonso  the  true  and  Victoria  the  tried 
Crowned  their  youthful  vows  as  bridegroom  and  bride. 
Just  a  month  and  a  day  ere  the  birth  of  a  son, — 
From  the  loss  of  Alejo,  twenty-four  wanting  one. 
How  they  lived  ever  after  is  folded  in  mysterj', 
But  later,  perchance,  we  may  look  up  the  histor}\ 

Of  Isabel,  we  are  told  that  she  still  remained  single, 
But  scarcely  as  much  with  the  world  cared  to  mingle; 
Since  she  found  (and  for  this  he  did  not  fail  to  bless  her) 
All  her  comfort  and  joy  in  her  father  confessor! 

Part  IV. 

Victoria  and  Alfonso. 

Playmates  in  childhood  and  lovers  in  youth, 
And  famed  for  their  beauty  not  less  than  their  truth, 
Were  the  pair  who  received  heaven's  sanction  that  night. 
Their  fortunes,  pains,  pleasures,  thenceforth  to  unite. 
With  trials  a  many  and  troubles  in  plenty 
.  Besetting  their  years  till  the  lady  was  twenty, 
They  seemed  destined  to  live  separated  forever. 
And  to  suffer  the  pangs  that  come  with  the  ''never" 
Of  poets  and  lovers,  who  find  once,  and  no  more, 
The  being  who  thrills  their  heart  to  its  core. 
But  fathers  or  friends  turn  cruel  and  vicious, 
Or  fate  in  some  shape  cuts  in  unpropitious. 
And  rarely  the  dear  ones  a  trial  can  make 
Of  a  love  they're  convinced  no  trial  could  shake, 
While  their  passion  by  time  suffers  no  diminution, 
But  in  verses  and  letters  is  held  in  solution. 
Such  fate  is,  alas!  the  too  common  lot, 
The  ingredient  of  every  poetical  plot 
Told  by  letters,  or  tales  profuse  in  their  prose, 


S/.  Alejo.  8 1 

And  whispered  all  secretly,  under  the  rose; — 
Indeed  it  is  common;  but,  thanks  to  our  saint, 
We've  a  different  picture  entirely  to  paint; 
For  our  lovers  are  married  and  settled  together, 
And  (in  the  Father's  cap  they  call  it  a  feather) 
A  fair  child  is  born  to  gladden  their  eyes. 
Binding  each  to  the  other  with  mutual  ties. 

By  the  fact  of  the  child,  of  course  all  may  gather 

That  love's  gushing  first  years,  for  the  mother  and  father, 

Have  passed — (those  sweet  days  of  "  My  dear,"  and  "  My 

darling," 
Alas!  that  such  days  should  end  sometimes  in  snarling, 
And  so  debar  us  the  pleasure  of  seeing  and  showing 
Wedlock's  earlier  joys,  so  well  worth  the  knowing) 
And  opens  our  tale  in  times  after  love's  spring, 
The  first  delicate  bloom  had  been  swept  from  his  wing, 
And  when  summer,  profuse  in  her  blossoms  and  light. 
In  their  marriage's  calendar  stood  at  full  height ! 

She  was  dressed  for  a  ball — superbly  dressed, 

And  showed  more  than  a  glimpse  of  a  finely  formed  breast, 

That  gleamed  out,  like  rich  beauty  disdaining  a  cover, 

Or  like  luscious  ripe  fruit  its  bonds  bursting  over; 

As  she  passed  to  her  carriage  so  stately  her  air. 

Each  timid  first  look  became  fixed  in  a  stare — 

A  forced  tribute,  exacted  by  glances  imperious, 

Quite  enough  to  make  any  man  feel  and  turn  serious. 

Her  husband,  politely  assisting  her  enter. 

Appeared  to  vibrate  at  the  sight  to  his  centre. 

The  carriage  rolled  off;  he  turned  back  with  a  sigh, 
And  the  sparkle  at  once  faded  out  from  his  eye; 
And  he  entered  the  house  with  a  dark  gloomy  brow 
That  said  things  came  to  pass,  tho'  he  scarcely  knew  howl 
His  wishes — for  orders  he'd  never  yet  given 


82  S/.  Alejo. 

To  her,  whose  smiles  had  made  earth  appear  heaven, — 
Were  not  understood,  or  ignored,  or  forgot, — 
He  scarcely  knew  which;  yet  he  doubted  her  not, 
Tho'  their  home,  himself,  and  their  beautiful  child 
Were  no  longer  the  charms  that  her  fancy  beguiled; 
But  a  word  or  a  thought,  their  past  days  recalling, 
He  trusted  would  save  her  from  sinning  or  falling. 
And,  perchance,  he  himself  had  been  something  to  blame, 
Tho'  he  scarcely  could  tell  whence  the  feeling  first  came. 
Or  how  it  had  grown,  until  they  appeared 
As  if  each  to  the  other  was  far  less  endeared. 

How  sad  is  that  feeling  when  once  it  is  known. 
To  our  mind's  eye  revealing,  tho'  we  scarcely  dare  own 
To  ourselves,  as  we  ponder  and  muse  o'er  the  past. 
And,  sorrowing,  wonder  can  love  die  at  last? — 
Is  that  something  all  strange,  in  one  who  hath  been 
Loved  without  change  through  life's  varying  scen^es. 
To  one  and  the  other,  hearts  speak  with  the  eyes, 
And  vainly  we'd  smother  the  fact  when  love  dies! 

With  her,  love  had  been  but  weak  woman's  desire 

For  the  worship  and  praise  her  charms  might  inspire, 

While  his  burned,  and  was  fed  by  that  holier  flame 

Of  truth  that  can  sacrifice  self,  and  such  fame, 

To  a  home  and  a  life  above  bull-fights  and  balls, 

The  flatt'ry  of  fops,  and  the  glitter  that  palls 

On  all  hearts  that  are  not  so  vacant  and  vain 

And  so  selfishly  full  of  their  own  little  pain 

Or  pleasure;  they  know  not,  and  never  can  know, 

A  joy  deeper  than  making  the  first  in  a  show 

Of  folly,  'mong  fools  that  bow,  flatter,  and  simper. 

And  speak  of  all  life  in  a  meaningless  whimper, 

Calling  gallantry  love,  and  malting  at  best 

Of  passion  a  plaything,  more  often  a  jest; — 

When  days  of  desire  end  in  mutual  disgust, 


Sf.  Alejo.      .  83 

And  each  growing  tired  find,  as  shallow  minds  must, 
A  new  bauble  or  pleasure  to  distract  or  amuse 
That  God-given  life  they  so  waste  and  abuse. 

Oh,  beauty,  divine,  glancing  out  from  bright  eyes. 

Oh,  music,  the  sweetest  that  lives  in  replies 

Of  woman  to  man,  in  youth's  innocent  flush, 

When  her  rich  cheek  is  stained  with  that  eloquent  blush 

That  tells  of  a  passion  half  painful  to  bear. 

From  the  might  of  her  joy,  that  is  burning  to  share 

Her  love  and  her  truth  with  the  chosen  from  all. 

Whose  heart  she  awoke  to  love's  magical  call ! 

Oh,  beauty  and  music,  once  heard  and  possessed. 
If  lost,  or  grown  silent,  to  him  who  was  blest 
By  your  charms  in  his  life,  his  home,  and  his  heart, 
Time  hath  little  to  give  and  earth  less  to  impart. 
For  memor}^,  however  hope  bravely  may  fight 
'Gainst  the  shadows  by  day,  will  recall  them  at  night, 
And  no  power  shall  avail  to  take  from  life's  door 
The  raven-like  shadows  that  moan  "  nevermore." 

Not  from  death  comes  the  blow  that  is  hardest  to  bear, 

Not  from  death  springs  the  grief  that  is  wildest  despair! 

O'er  the  tombs  of  our  dead  a  bright  halo  is  flung. 

And  love  clings  to  the  lost,  as  in  life  it  once  clung, 

And  God  in  his  mercy  set  death  round  with  hope. 

And  gave  us  a  power  with  this  shadow  to  cope. 

But  what  shall  avail  us  to  soften  the  pangs 

When  regret  and  remorse  fix  their  venomous  fangs 

In  a  heart  that  not  heeded  or  cast  from  its  side 

A  husband  once  loved,  or  a  dear  worshipped  bride,— 

When  the  soul,  looking  back  o'er  a  long  line  of  years, 

Shall  see  naught  in  the  track  but  crimes  watered  with  tears, — ■ 

When  the  soul  and  the  senses  grow  palsied  and  shake, 

Telling  o'er  such  a  life  from  mistake  to  mistake:— 


84  SL  Alejo. 

Comfort  comes  to  the  mourner  by  nature  bereft, 

But  repentance  alone  for  such  spirits  is  left; 

Though  the  voice  ring  with  laughter,  the  eye  gleam  with 

mirth, 
Yet  never  comes  peace  back  for  them,  on  this  earth ! 

O'er  the  bed  of  their  child  bowed  the  father  a  space, 
And  watched  with  delight  the  small,  tranquil  face 
Which  lay  rosy  and  warm  in  its  innocent  sleep. 
Not  fearing  the  future,  with  no  past  to  weep, 
But  all  virgin  and  bright,  like  a  pearl  in  the  deep. 
He  thought  of  the  mother,  and  prayed  that  this  night 
He  might  win  her  again  from  the  hollow  delight 
The  world  gave,  to  his  heart  and  his  home  by  a  word, 
And  a  sight  at  which  nature  had  trembled  and  stirred 
Thro'  his  being,  and  reached  even  her,  as  she  lay 
Proudly  back  in  her  chair,  in  her  box  at  the  play, — 
"  The  admired  of  admirers," — the  gayest  of  gay ! 

All  gently  he  spoke  of  these  things  when  she  came, 

But  her  blood  in  a  moment  was  up  in  a  flame— 

Her's  was  the  fortune,  not  his,  that  she  spent; 

And,  pray  who  was  to  blame  if  alone  she  went  ? 

What  his  pleasures  might  be  she  knew  not,  nor  cared, 

But  with  her  they  had  certainly  never  been  shared. 

As  to  dressing,  he'd  better  turn  milliner's  maid. 

And  study  the  fashions  ere  offering  to  aid 

In  selecting  her  dresses, — -tho'  when  she  required  it 

She'd  show  him  her  next,  and  ask  if  he  admired  it. 

Till  that  time,  he  could  censure  or  praise  at  his  pleasure, 

Since  her  dress  would  be  cut  to  suit  her  own  measure 

Not  his, — and,  thank  God !  all  the  money  they  cost, 

Tho'  paid  by  his  wife,  yet  by  him  was  not  lost. 

She  begged,  the  next  time  he  would  kindly  choose  morning 

When  he  felt  bound  to  preach,  and  give  her  due  warning; 

For  the  present,  she  thanked  him  tho'  he  was  bitter, 

Then  wished  him  good  night,  with  a  smile  and  a  titter. 


S/.  Alejo. 


A  play  by  one  Shakspeare,  called  "  Taming"  the  Shrew," 

When  well  put  on  the  stage  in  my  day  always  drew 

In  all  parts  crowds  of  people,  to  witness  ''Sour  Kate," 

Become,  thro'  rough  treatment,  the  obedient  mate 

Of  one  Mr.  Petruchio.     In  prose,  play,  or  novel, 

No  argun!ent  charms  more,  in  palace  or  hovel, 

Than  to  make  some  brave  woman  acknowledge  man's  right, 

And  yield  up  with  much  grace  after  showing  some  fight 

To  the  will  of  that  man  who  may  take  her  in  hand, 

As  the  giant  did  once  a  sweet  Miss  Crowland, 

Whose  five  valiant  brothers  departed  this  life 

Through  going  to  meddle  'twixt  the  man  and  his  wife 

What  think  you  's  the  meaning  of  this  popularity  ? 
Or  is  it  that  shrews  are  in  life  such  a  rarity  ? 
Or  is  it,  perchance,  that  they  seldom  get  tamed  ? 
Or  that  men  like  to  see  women  broken  and  shamed  ? 
Or— no  matter  now;  be  the  cause  what  it  may, 
It's  less  pleasant  in  life  than  when  seen  in  a  play. 
As  whoever  shall  try  it  may  find  out  one  day, 

But  this  heroine  of  ours  is  no  genuine  shrew; 

If  you  carefully  note  her  character  through, 

You'll  find  that  she's  shallow,  vain,  selfish,  and  proud,— 

A  specimen  picked  out  from  fashion's  rich  crowd. 

Whose  aim  from  their  birth  till  death  turn  the  sad  page 

Is  to  shine,  dress,  be  talked  of, — perhaps  counted  the  rage. 

Those  shrews  of  the  poets  have  hearts  you  can  reach, 

And  not  vainly  their  husbands  or  reason  or  preach. 

But  in  life  they  are  found  quite  callous  to  lessons. 

And  impervious  to  all  save  wished /or  impressions; 

And  Petruchio  might  rail  and  smash  all  things  before  her, 

Ere  bending  the  will  of  a  wife  like  Victoria; 

And  even  the  treatment  that  cured  Kate  of  canker 

Had  most  likely  failed  with  the  gentle  Bianca. 

Not  she  who  speaks  loudest  or  rails  at  a  trifle. 


86  S/.  Alejo. 

Is  the  hardest  to  soothe,  or  her  passions  to  stifle; 
But  that  soft  pink  and  white  sweet  creature  of  grace, 
Whose  soul  seems  to  smile  from  her  beautiful  face, 
As  she  sits  by  her  mother  and  plays  with  her  fan, 

May  perhaps  turn  out  more  than  a  match  for  her  man. 

« 

'Tis  an  impost  laid  ever  on  marriage  by  fate, 

The  lady  can  never  be  known  till  too  late 

To  break  up  the  contract,  except  by  a  scandal 

And  by  giving  the  curious  a.  pretty  strong  handle 

To  pump  out  our  secrets  domestic,  and  show 

To  the  w6rld  what  it's  best  the  world  should  not  know. 

In  such  trials  most  wives  rise  superior  to  men, 
And  bear  better  the  griefs  that  come  to  them,  when 
In  life's  lottery  a  blank  turns  up  in  the  place 
Of  the  love  and  attention  they  trusted  would  grace 
Their  homes,  when  as  mothers  and  wives  they  consented 
To  share  life  with  that  dearest  one  fortune  presented. 
How  many  sit  watching  alone  and  in  tears 
Until  his  step  comes,  when  the  gentle  face  clears ! 

Life's  balance  once  struck,  as  'twill  be  in  the  sequel. 
Spite  of  shrews,  ivornan's  love  will  be  found  without  equal, 
The  one  thing  on  earth  most  perfect  and  whole, 
Most  Christlike,  most  Godlike,  and  purest  of  soul ! 

To  our  tale.     With  much  patience  and  gentle  persuasion, 

And  even  with  firmness  and  strength  on  occasion, 

The  husband  atternpted  his  wrongs  to  resist. 

Pitched  battle  and  skirmish  were  foughten,  I  wist. 

By  day  and  by  night,  'tween  this  once  loving  pair, 

But  did  not  result  in  cleansing  the  air, 

Like  the  thunders  of  heaven.     On  the  contrary,  they 

Appeared  to  make  darker  each  forthcoming  day. 


S/.  Alejo.  87 

Thus  it  fared  with  Alfonso,  who'd  lost  his  command, 

And  who  might  have  been  pardoned  for  "raising  his  hand 

Gainst  a  woman,"  to  win  her  from  folly  and  blindness, 

And  in  this  way  have  shown  that  he  did  it  "  in  kindness," 

Had  it  proved  a  success;  but  in  face  of  the  doubt 

He  scrupled  to  try  it,  so  managed,  without, 

To  hit  on  a  plan  that  served,  perhaps,  as  well 

(If  not  to  win  heaven)  to  save  him  from  hell! 

Thus,    one  morning  the   husband  and  child   were  both 

missing, — 
Had  gone,  none  knew  where,  and  left  without  kissing 
The  mother  and  wife,  at  which  she  felt  sore. 
And  had  scolded,  no  doubt,  had  they  come  back  once  more. 
But  they  did  not;  and  rumor,  which  runs  on  the  breeze, 
Reported  them  shipped  and  away  over  seas 
To  a  new  world  that  Spain  possessed  in  those  days, 
And  lost  when  Great  Bolivar  won  his  bright  bays. 

Thus  our  heroine  again,  now  skilled  by  experience 
In  life,  had  once  more  achieved  her  deliverance, 
And  was  free  from  all  fetters,  to  follow  the  bent 
Of  a  heart  that  to  pleasure  alone  had  been  lent. 
Still  her  time  she  employed  much  as  she  had  done 
In  the  days  that  were  passed,  excepting  in  one 
Small  particular;  and  that  was,  receiving  at  home 
Many  friends  that  before  she  could  not  let  come. 
There  were  generals,  priests,  actors,  politicians,  and  wits. 
With  poets  and  painters  and  sparkling  young  cits. 
Her  passion  seemed  changed;  she  forgot  on  the  morrow 
Her  favorite  to-day,  in  her  general  horror 

Of  anything  old  in  dresses  and  lovers,  she 

Appeared  on  a  voyage  of  perpetual  discovery. 
Not  the  famed  Russian  Empress,  Cath'rine  the  Great, 
With  her  "  right  divine  "  titles  to  splendor  and  state, 

Nor  any  one  Queen  of  any  one  nation 

Made  changes  on  shorter  deliberation. 


88  6*/.  Alejo. 

This  held  for  some  years;  then  scandal  began 
At  length  to  point  out  one  particular  man, — 
A  great  general,  all  covered  ^vith  gold  and  with  lace 
Round  a  padded  figure,  with  a  whiskerless  face 
In  which  Dame  Nature  had  signed  her  receipt 
For  cunning  and  craft,  cowardice  and  deceit. 
He  had  won  his  fame  in  a  low  revolution, 
And  by  work, — dirty,  as  suited  his  constitution, 
Had  raised  himself  up  from  obscure  destitution. 
On  this  man  her  favors  bestowed  were  so  long, 
Many  lovers  fell  oif,  and  ceased  to  belong 
To  her  tra'in;  the  while  she  was  growing  in  years, 
And  also  around  her  were  growing  compeers, 
Who  began  to  divide  and  diminish  her  sway, 
Which,  like  Hamlet's  dog,  had  at  last  had  its  day! 

It  was  full  on  the  wane,  when  one  came  to  her  door, 

Quite  a  king  of  a  man  to  all  men  gone  before. 

Her  spirit,  her  charms,  seemed  to  flash  out  once  more, 

And  an  effort  she  made  to  be  what  she  had  been; 

But  her  fate,  or  her  stars,  were  against  her  I  ween, 

As  Napoleon's  were  at  that  famed  Waterloo, 

Lost  only  because  one  can't  win  and  lose  too ! 

So  it  fared  with  our  lady.     Her  lover  betrayed  her 

And  left  her  for  another;  which  seemed  so  to  degrade  her 

In  man's  eyes  and  her  own,  that  she  took  it  to  heart, 

And  resolved  there  and  then  it  was  time  to  depart 

From  a  world  vain  at  best,  and  begin  to  prepare 

For  that  other,  where  age  is  not  known,  nor  despair ! 

Most  punctual  at  mass,  most  contrite  in  confession, — 
Soon  lost  was  all  chance  of  Nick's  getting  possession 
Of  a  soul  he  had  counted  his  own  for  some  years, 
And  he  vented  his  rage  in  the  hottest  of  tears 
As  he  watched  her  demurely  take  (daily)  her  way 


S/.  Alejo.  89 

To  atone  for  the  little  she'd  perhaps  gone  astray; 
But  ere  long,  even  this,  she  feared,  might  not  prevail, 
So  she  one  day  determined  on  taking  the  veil; 
And  having  of  fortune  left  still  and  to  spare, 
Why,  admitance  was  made  for  her  easily  there, — 
In  that  convent  wherein  she  had  passed  her  youth. 
And  picked  up  what  she  knew  of  love,  virtue,  and  truth ! 

Thus  once  more  and  forever  she  enters  the  place. 

And  concludes,  as  it  were,  life's  circle  of  grace 

In  this  visible  world  dedicated  to  man, 

And  her  higher  and  holier  life  began. 

She  rose  soon  from  the  rank  of  a  simple  sister. 

And  her  goodness  increased  as  if  God  himself  kissed  her, 

Imparting  at  once,  without  effort  or  pain, 

The  fervor,  faith,  wisdom,  that  never  in  vain 

Are  shown  by  believers,  in  a  head  and  a  toe 

Proved  infallible — (reason: — because  it  is  so!) 

Many  years  was  she  spared  in  the  house  to  officiate 

As  Lady  Superior,  having  passed  her  noviciate: — 

At  last  died  with  an  odor  none  dared  to  call  faint, 

And  her  soul,  clothed  in  sanctity,  went  to  her  saint ! 

There  was  joy  in  heaven  as  she  sprung  to  his  side. 
And  all  fearlessly  claimed  him  as  groom  to  her  bride. 
No  "Alphonse  "  for  her  now, — no,  nor  any  soul  smaller; 
She  had  won  him  at  last,  and  he  boldly  might  call  her 
His  own,  all  his  own.     The  saints,  angels,  around, 
Were  much  moved  by  the  sight  of  a  joy  so  profound. 
And  declared,  as  they  passed  from  the  place  where  they 

stood. 
Since  Guinevere's  coming,  they'd  seen  no  sight  so  good ! 
Then  the  organ  struck  up,  in  a  glorious  roll, 
The  full  chorus  of  heaven,  to  welcome  her  soul ! 


SANTA  MARINA. 

Note. — The  feast  of  Santa  Marina  is  celebrated  on  the  eighteenth  of 
July.  Her  history,  shorn  of  the  miracles  and  fables  the  Church  of  Rome 
has  woven  about  it,  will  be  found  in  the  poem.  "  The  Christian  year  "  makes 
her  one  of  ninechilcfren,  all  born  at  the  same  time  and  of  one  and  the  same 
mother,  and  all  sainted;  their  names  were  as  follows:  Genevera,  Liberata,  Vic- 
toria, Eumel>a,  Germana,  Marina,  Basilia,  Gemma  and  Quiteria.  The  mother, 
ashamed  and  frightened  at  having  given  birth  to  such  a  number,  commanded 
the  nurse  who  attended  her  to  throw  them  all  into  the  river;  but  she  (the  nurse) 
repenting  after  having  consented,  intrusted  them  to  the  care  of  some  Christians, 
with  whom  the  children  grew  in  grace  and  beauty,  until  it  came  to  pass  that 
their  father  (governor  of  the  place)  caused  all  Christians  to  be  brought  before 
him;  when  their  birth  and  relationship  was  discovered  and  proved,  in  hopes  of 
saving  them  from  punishment.  He  at  once  offered  to  receive  them,  and  marry 
them  as  became  their  station;  the  condition  being  their  renunciation  of  the 
Christian  religion;  the  which  they  all  refused;  and  after  a  vain  attempt  to  con- 
vert him  to  their  faith,  they  agreed  to  separate  and  take  each  a  different  road,  to 
save  their  father  from  being  guilty  of  their  deaths,  and  to  fulfill  the  mission 
heaven  had  intrusted  to  them.  The  poem  opens  as  Marina  leaves.  These 
events  are  said  to  have  happened  in  a  remote  part  of  the  Peninsula,  towards  the 
latter  end  of  the  second  century. 

FRAIL  bodies  may  enshrine  a  spirit  strong, — 
Ah  me! — and  such  have  in  all  time  been  found; 
And  therefore  virtue  oft  hath  suffered  wrong, 
And  truth  and  beauty  taken  many  a  wound ; 
Since  brutish  force  can  trample  to  the  ground 
The  weak  and  delicate,  tho'  rich  in  worth, 

And,  vainly  glorious,  look  with  pride  around, 
As  if  it  were  the  noblest  thing  on  earth, — 
A  king  by  right  divine,  and  sceptered  from  its  birth ! 

And  such,  in  brief,  is  sweet  INfarina's  tale; 

A  maiden  pure  and  delicately  fair; 
Who  left  her  father's  home  and  native  vale 


Santa  Marina.  91 

To  seek  for  peace  and  freedom  otherwhere; 

Throwing  herself  on  God's  especial  care, 
To  whom  she  yearned  with  all  her  might  of  soul, 

And  vowed  to  dedicate  her  virtue  rare 
To  him  and  his,  and  not  to  idols  foul, 
For  which,  with  angry  eyes,  parents  and  priests  did  scowl. 

For  in  those  days  she  lived,  when  old  and  new 

Shook  men  and  states  and  every  social  tie, 
When  war  was  waged  betwixt  the  false  and  true, 

And  pagan  rites  with  Christian  dared  to  vie, 

And  claimed  for  customs  old  a  victory; 
Deeming  the  new  light  but  a  mirage  vain, 

A  fabled  tale,  or  passing  history 
Of  some  new  God  or  sect  that  sought  to  reign 
By  miracles  as  false  as  they  themselves  did  feign. 

But  young  Marina,  in  the  deepest  deep 

Of  being,  felt  her  spirit  move  and  stir, 
Bidding  her  tarry  not,  nor  idly  sleep.    . 

And  well  she  knew  that  spirit  did  not  err. 

That  on  such  mission  forth  had  guided  her 
To  teach  the  law  of  Christ  and  all  his  love. 

To  poor  and  suifering  hearts  to  minister. 
And  carry  on  his  work  who  went  above. 
With  all  a  giant's  strength,  tho'  meekly  as  a  dove. 

So,  in  these  days,  full  often  is  it  seen 

That  not  the  lordly  brain  but  lowly  heart 
Is  chosen  for  this  greatest  work,  I  ween : 

Since  gentle  words  and  deeds  may  more  impart 

Of  heaven's  love  and  care  than  by  much  art  - 
The  greatest  sage  in  choicest  w^ords  can  tell. 

Words  only  speak,  while  actions  seem  a  part 
Of  heaven  itself,  and  never  vainly  fell 
The  golden  seed  of  love  where  sorrow  chose  to  dwell. 


92  Santa  Marina. 

And  on  her  mission  forth  the  maiden  went. 

Sunshine  and  beauty  played  about  her  path; 
But  not  on  beauty  was  her  mind  intent. 

She  sought  the  darksome  liome,  the  troubled  hearth, 

Where  death  had  been,  and  gods  in  threat'ning  wrath 
By  their  false  priests  were  said  to  scowl  and  frown; 

And  there  she  taught  the  sacred  truth  that  hath 
From  death  removed  the  sting,  since  Christ  came  down; 
She  bade  them  follow  him  and  win  their  heavenly  crown. 

And  many  followed;  everywhere  she  came 
The  people's  eyes  were  opened  to  the  light; 

And  much  of  reverence  grew  about  her  name, 
And  in  her  eyes  was  seen  such  sweet  delight 
As  comes  to  those  who  feel  they  work  aright. 

But  not  forever  could  she  thus  proceed — 
It  is  not  given  to  any  mortal  wight, 

However  good  or  wise,  to  all  succeed, 

And  every  path  hath  thorns  that  make  the  feet  to  bleed. 

And  nothing  good  but  hath  an  opposite; 

And  in  religion  most  hath  this  been  shown; 
And  now  the  priests  began  to  move  in  spite 

And  seek  to  have  her  into  prison  thrown. 

Fearing  her  influence  might  outgrow  their  own. 
Before  harsh  judges  is  she  rudely  brought, 

Who  know  no  gods,  except  their  gods  of  stone, 
Who  bid  her  take  of  youth  and  beauty  thought 
And  leave  her  foolish  task,  and  wed  as  maidens  ought. 

And  one  among  her  judges,  with  his  eyes 

Did  seem  to  feast  upon  her  lovely  face; 
And  drank  the  music  of  her  low  replies. 

As  if  he,  too,  had  been  a  child  of  grace; 

And  such  she  deemed  him  in  that  horrid  place; 
For  still  the  words  were  gentle  that  he  spoke. 

Nor  hinted  aught  that  might  her  life  disgrace; 


Santa  Marina.  93 

But  later  on  the  dream  all  rudely  broke, 

When  he  alone  with  her,  by  wildest  offers,  woke 

Her  spirit  to  resistance  and  disgust, 

Seeking  herself  by  tyrant's  powers  to  gain 

As  partner  of  his  crimes  and  of  his  lust. 
But  little  knew  he,  with  his  code  profane. 
How  souls  like  hers  resist  the  lightest  stain, 

And  dare  the  worst  that  can  by  men  be  used; 
No  earthly  torture  and  no  stretch  of  pain 

Is  equal  horror  to  a  sense  misused 

By  such  as  feel  the  truth  that  Christ  himself  diffused. 

And  many  times  he  came,  but  never  ceased 

His  quest  of  that  which  she  might  never  give; 
And  from  his  power  she  could  not  be  released, 

She  almost  prayed  that  she  might  cease  to  live. 

Till  last,  as  wife,  he  wooed  her  to  forgive, 
And,  as  an  honor,  take  his  noble  hand. 

But  all  in  vain !     She  did  not  dare  to  live 
By  heathen  favor  in  God's  holy  land. 
Nor  to  forsake  a  task  she  had'so  firmly  planned. 

But  rather  wi^h  her  voice  and  "gentle  smile 

She  sought  to  win  him  to  that  better  life, 
And  by  such  means  his  passion  to  beguile. 

From  thought  of  her  as  leman  or  as  wife; 

And  'neath  her  soothing  words,  the  fiercer  strife 
Of  passion  changed  into  that  holier  love. 

Which,  freed  from  lust,  with  tenderness  all  rife,  ♦ 

Comes,  as  an  angel  guardian  from  above, 
Bearing  the  branch  of  hope  as  did  the  winged  dove. 

Her  tortures  change,  alas,  but  do  not  end! 

To  his  compeers  he  answers  now  no  more 
That  in  a  little  time  her  knee  shall  bend 

And  bow  their  altars  and  their  gods  before: — 


94  Santa  Marina. 

The  cruel  priests  are  thirsting  for  her  gore, 
Nor  can  he,  tho'  he  would,  avert  her  lot; 

And  they  will  beat  her  tender  body  sore 
With  scourge  and  whip  and  cruel  pincers  hot, 
In  hopes  to  make  her  seem  the  thing  that  she  is  not. 

But  nothing  know  these  cowards,  as  they  strike, 
How  weak  the  smart  that  finest  nerve  can  feel, 

Compared  to  that  which  in  the  conscience  like 
A  viper  clings,  and  makes  the  senses  reel 
With  pain  that  plant  was  never  found  to  heal : 

The  pain  of  deeds  that  all  pollute  the  mind, 
The  sense  of  loss  that  nothing  yet  could  steel; 

Making  the  soul  feel  lower  than  its  kind, 

Knowing  itself  debased,  degraded,  lost,  and  blind. 

And  much  she  suffered,  but  not  she  alone: 

Her  worshipper — not  lover  now,  was  he— 
As  if  each  lash  had  cut  him  to  the  bone. 

Would  writhe  as  one  in  direst  agony; 

And  once,  with  a  mistaken  sympathy,  ■ 
He  prayed  her  for  herself  to  make  a  sign. 

As  if  with  those  foul  men  she  did  agree; 
She  answered  with  a  smile  from  eyes  benign. 
But  shaped  a  simple  cross  and  prayed  a  prayer  divine, 

And 'in  her  cell,  with  gentle  words,  rebuked 

The  wish  expressed;  by  fraud  to  'scape  from  grief 

Was  crime  to  her,  and  might  not  be  o'erlookisd; 
Tho'  pain  seemed  long,  yet  life  was  only  brief, 
And  the  brave  soul  might  not,  as  did  the  thief. 

Escape  from  punishment  by  force  of  lies, 

Nor  bind  one  tare  up  with  life's  golden  sheaf; 

But  bear  whate'er  of  sorrow  might  arise, 

If  it  had  hope  and  faith  and  yearned  to  reach  the  skies. 


Santa  Marina.  95 

And  now  by  other  means  they  go  about, — 

These  cruel  men — a  Christian's  strength  to  prove. 

From  food,  hght,  people,  and  from  all  shut  out 
Her  aching  limbs  with  scarcely  room  to  move, 
They  bid  her  there  to  feel  that  God  is  love : 

And  thinking  to  affright  her  mind  with  show. 
Strange  figures,  and  forms  horrid  from  above 

By  some  vile  means  they  cast  on  walls  below: 

But  still  the  maiden  smiled,  and  fear  could  never  know: — 

Till,  in  the  minds  of  even  her  worst  foes 

Began  to  grow  a  kind  of  dread  and  awe, 
That  one  so  frail  should  bear  such  weight  of  wOes, 

And  with  a  faith  and  hope  so  free  from  flaw 

Hold  firm  to  this  new  God  and  his  strange  law; 
And  never  taint  her  speech  with  bitter  word, 

Altho'  that  God  on  earth  she  never  saw. 
This  was  a  something  that  had  not  been  heard, 
And  spite  of  all  their  strength,  with  fear  their  spirits  stirred. 

For  there  is  something  awful  and  sublime 
In  this  strong  faith  in  goodness  and  in  truth. 

This  hope  that  reaches  far  beyond  all  time. 

This  strength  to  age,  and  guiding  star  of  youth, 
This  love  that  trusts,  beyond  all  doubt  or  ruth, 

The  power  unseen  which  guides  the  universe: 
Imperfect  dream  of  wisdom's  perfect  truth, 

Unchangeable  by  pain, — with  no  reverse, —   . 

This  mighty  faith  of  faiths,  in  laws  that  seem  diverse!       • 

Then  came  a  pause  to  her  in  suffering; 

Her  tyrants  shook  before  her  and  recoiled; 
She  had  withstood  their  skill  in  everything. 

Power  to  inflict  by  power  to  bear  was  foiled; 

And  they  in  vain  with  cruelty  had  soiled 
Their  hands  in  blood.     So  virtue  ever  shines, 


96  Santa  Marina. 

While  sin  and  crime  with  care  unceasing  toiled, 
Virtue  and  truth  won  to  life's  utmost  lines, 
Where  all  of  w^orth  and  joy,  as  light  with  light,  combines. 

But  yet  they  cast  about,  in  their  own  souls. 

What  remedy  in  such  a  case  might  be; 
The  power  that  man  above  his  fellows  holds 

Is  not  resigned  or  vanquished  easily; 

And  should  she  now  obtain  the  victory, 
The  gods  of  old,  and  they  themselves  must  fall; 

For  faith  grew  fast  in  this  new  histor}'. 
And  it  behooved  these  priests,  both  one  and  all. 
By  means  infallible  for  help  upon  their  gods  to  call. 

And  thus  did  they  appoint  a  special  day, 

In  which  the  proof  of  God  'gainst  God  should  show. 
And  bade  her,  as  themselves,  to  kneel  and  pray 

That  all  the  world  might  be  convinced,  and  know 

If  theirs  or  hers  were  true;  should  it  prove  so, 
If  she  had  played  false  prophetess  to  gain 

Her  foolish  followers,  who  would  tamely  bow 
For  novelty  in  each  new-fangled  fane. 
Her  life  should  forfeit  be  for  preaching  hopes  so  vain. 

With  solemn  pomp,  with  revelr)^  and  game, 
And  long  procession  to  some  sacred  spot, 

To  clothe  with  mystery  their  murderous  aim, 
^     Did  they  prepare  to  show  her  God  was  not 
A  living  truth,  and  from  the  world  to  blot 

Her  fair  young  life,  that  they  might  freer  reign. 
They  chose  the  test  of  water  for  her  lot, 

And  from  the  deep  sea  bade  her  rise  again, 

To  prove  her  hope  was  not  some  fable  of  her  brain. 

With  clang  and  clash  of  pipe  and  cymbal  harsh, 

With  beaten  discords  from  a  thousand  gongs, 
With  gestures  frantic  and  with  speech  all  rash, 


Santa  Marina.  97 

The  dancing  priests  move  to  the  spot  in  throngs. 

And  there  is  heard  the  noise  of  many  tongues, — 
Fit  music  for  such  gods  and  men  debased : — 

Oh,  Christ!     Look  down  and  let  them  not  reign  long: 
The  maiden  prayed,  as  with  firm  step  she  paced 
Her  path  to  that  high  rock,  which  showed  forth,  million- 
faced. 

All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  as  she  passed; 

And  much  they  marveled  at  her  tranquil  mien. 
Calm  strength  and  peace  in  her  bright  face  were  glassed, 

And  'mongst  those  men,  she  looked  an  angel-queen, 

A  brilliant  purity,  as  snow  in  morning  sheen; 
And  when  she  turned  her  eyes  from  earth  to  heaven, 

Had  she  ascended  to  the  height  serene. 
No  heart  with  wonder  had  so  much  been  riven 
As  when  she  fell  where  waves  on  rugged  rocks  were  driven. 

Yet,  ere  she  fell,  in  accents  clear  that  rung 

Like  trumpet  call,  in  one  short  moment's  hush, 

She  said  her  God  w^as  with  her,  made  her  strong, 
And  tho'  her  limbs  the  cruel  priests  might  crush, 
Her  deathless  soul  should  all  outlive  the  rush 

Of  angry  waves,  and  from  God's  heaven  look  down 
With  pity  on  them;  and  she  bade  them  rush 

Their  souls  to  save,  and  win  a  sinless  crown, 

For  God  was  true,  tho'  she  could  die  and  priests  in  envy 
frown. 

Then  from  the  rock  she  fell;  the  air  was  rent 
With  cry  of  men,  and  many  wailing  tones 

Of  hearts  that  wept.     As  back  the  people  went. 
Their  voices  threatened,  and  those  lifeless  stones 
And  mumming  priests  were  hailed  with  angry  groans. 

Not  less  in  death  than  life  she  seemed  a  power, 

And  each,  once  doubtful,  Christ's  great  doctrine  owns, 

Since  he  has  seen  her  perish  in  her  flower. 

Made  strong  and  calm  by  faith  in  that  last  trying  hour! 


iMrk 


'^^ 


SANTA  SINFOROSA. 

Note. — This  noble  woman  was  born  in  Rome  in  the  middle  of  the  second 
Century,  and  niarfied  one  of  the  great  lords  at  the  court  of  Adrian,  by  name 
Getulo.  He  became  a  Christian,  and  thereby  incensed  the  Emperor,  who  cru- 
elly put  him  to  death;  but  not  before  his  wife  had  borne  him  seven  children, 
with  whom,  after  having  ministered  to  her  husband  in  captivity,  and  buried  him 
at  his  death,  she  retired  from  the  court,  hoping  to  escape  persecution;  but  in 
vain,  since  the  Emperor  fixed  upon  the  place  of  her  retirement  to  build  a  palace 
and  a  temple.  The  high  priest  declared  he  could  not  sleep  for  her  prayers,  and 
by  an  oracle  instigated  the  death  of  her  and  of  her  children.  She  needs  none 
of  the  miracles  the  Church  of  Rome  has  woven  about  her  to  make  her  life  beau- 
tiful, or  her  character  divine.  Will  the  Pope  and  his  people  never  learn  that 
the  simple  and  true  life  of  the  man  and  the  woman  is  the  highest,  noblest  and 
greatest  character  human  nature  may  attain  to  in  time  ?  or  will  they  forever  and 
ever  go  on  attempting  to  gild  the  gold,  paint  the  lily,  and  perfume  the  violet, 
with  their  quintessence  of  lies?  lies  that,  if  true,  would  only  deform  man's  na- 
ture and  destroy  the  simplicity  and  beauty  of  his  every  action  and  of  the  soul 
itself. 

Mother  of  England, — her  I  called  my  own,— 

Writing  of  mother  brings  thy  look  and  tone 

And  all  thy  strong  affection,  and  the  might 

Of  that  great  care  I  never  could  requite. 

So  clearly  back,  I  cannot  leave  the  theme; 

But  linger  still,  as  if  in  some  half  dream. 

You  were  my  own  again,  my  hope,  my  stay, 

My  priceless  jewel,  God  has  called  away! 

FAIR  'mid  the  fairest  of  that  mighty  land 
Whose  history  blends  with  nature's — where  the  grand 
In  man's  achievements  seemeth  to  arise 
Most  mountain-like, — a  maiden,  gentle,  wise, 
And  rich  as  the  summer's  budding  tree 
With  promise  of  much  fruit, — oh,  such  was  she 
In  her  full  youth  and  bright  simplicity. 

Yet  was  she  born  to  suffering,  and  great  stress 
Of  hard  temptation  and  deep  wretchedness, 


Santa  Sinforosa.  99 

All  that  can  shake  a  wife's  heart  and  a  mother's, 

Deeper  and  fuller  this  than  may  be  borne  by  others; 

Since  ever  is  it  easier  far  to  hear 

In  noble  hearts,  than  watch  another's  care; 

And  to  the  mother's  soul  comes  this  perforce 

With  tenfold  sorrow  and  with  tenfold  force. 

A  lover  wooed  her,  w^orthy  of  her  line, 

And  formed  to  mingle  as  is  vine  with  vine 

Was  his  and  hers,  and  gently  did  incline 

Her  soul  to  his,  as  when  a  willow  bends 

To  summer's  wind,  that  blowing  softly  lends 

New  charms  to  boughs  that  passive  lying 

Remind  us  of  the  dead  or  dying 

In  their  still  beauty.     But  awake  to  motion 

Was  this  bright  soul,  and  her  new  felt  emotion, 

As  she  responded  to  his  love,  did  make 

Such  holy  melodies  as  at  the  break 

Of  day  are  heard,  and  felt  when  stars  grown  dim, 

And  nature  sings  the  morning's  matchless  hymn. 

All  that  is  known  of  perfect,  in  poor  time 

They  shared  in  joys  that  ran  as  doth  a  rhyme 

Of  different  measures;  change  and  change  again, 

Made  pain  seem  pleasure,  and  then  pleasure  pain: 

As  children's  faces  grew  about  their  home. 

And  years  of  love  went  by,  while  years  seemed  still  to  come* 

This  fell  in  times  when  Christ  was  little  known, 
And  while  the  world  to  pagan  gods  bowed  down; 
When  Adrian  ruled  and  poured  forth  human  blood 
In  sacrifice  to  shapes  of  stone  and  wood; 
But  Sinforosa  and  her  noble  lord 
Had  caught  new  light,  had  heard  the  sacred  word 
That  filled  their  souls  with  love  of  him  who  trod 
But  yesterday  on  earth,  the  great  and  living  God, 
And  whose  pure  faith  so  firmly  they  embraced, 


100  Santa  Sinforosa. 

From  out  their  minds  it  might  not  be  erased; 

And  all  their  children  from  their  earliest  youth 

By  mother's  lips  were  taught  the  living  truth. 

Thus  did  they  grow  as  Christians,  just  and  strong, 

In  early  days  when  Christians  suffered  wrong, 

And  when  that  faith  was  mark  for  scorn  and  shame 

To  those  for  whose  dear  sake  our  Lord  and  Saviour  came. 

High  in  the  state,  and  of  much  note  their  sire; 

And  to  his  home  did  Christians  oft  retire 

When  persecution  was  let  loose,  to  take 

These  heretics  and  bring  them  to  the  stake 

To  appease  the  fancied  wrath  of  idols,  or 

To  grace  the  arena's  games.     For  this,  and  more, 

Did  Christ's  own  followers  in  those  days  endure. 

When  faith  was  death  and  heaven  alone  was  sure. 

But  spite  of  death,  and  all  in  scorn  of  foes, 

His  followers  follow,  and  their  number  grows. 

Among  this  number  Sinforosa's  name 

And  her  good  lord's  were  high  in  holy  fame; 

The  which  when  Rome's  great  Emperor  Adrian  learned, 

His  rage  the  more  against  the  Christians  burned; 

And,  all  in  wrath,  he  bade  his  soldiers  bring 

In  chains  her  lord  to  answer  to  his  king. 


*o 


Firm  was  the  soul  of  Getulo,  the  Good — 

So  was  her  husband  called, — and  by  him  stood 

His  brothers,  both  accused  of  the  same  crime, — - 

The  secret  worship  of  that  God  sublime 

Who  gave  to  heaven  and  earth  and  living  things 

The  shape  they  wear,  and  to  the  soul,  like  wings, 

High  thoughts,  that  lift  above  the  brute  in  height 

That  man  who  knows  to  fmd  in  pain  delight. 

And  pain  in  pleasures  that  are  sinful  shown 

By  him  who  came  to  teach  and  make  the  world  his  own. 


Santa  Sin/or osa.  lOl 

Days  were  they  held  in  prison  and  in  chains, 
And  suffered  greatly  from  inflicted  pains, 
The  all  of  which  were  meant  their  souls  to  wean 
From  Him  above  who  rules  this  world  unseen; 
And  still  each  day  their  penance  was  increased, 
And  not  from  thraldom  might  they  be  released 
Unless  they  bowed  the  knee  in  praise  before 
The  altars  of  those  gods  the  vulgar  minds  adore. 

In  this  sad  time  did  Sinforosa  come 

To  see  her  suffering  lord  confined  in  Rome; 

She  bade  him  be  of  cheer,  but  never  speak 

The  false  before  the  true;  while  down  her  cheek 

The  salt  tears  ran,  God  gave  her  strength  to  say 

The  words  that  make  man  strong  and  brave  to  play 

At  life  and  death,  as  His  will  may  dispose 

The  fate  of  each  he  sends  to  battle  with  his  foes. 

And  later,  and  when  all  in  vain  were  found 

The  galling  chain  and  deeply  smarting  wound. 

Were  offers  made  of  honor  and  great  wealth; 

But  little  could  the  tyrant,  from  himself. 

Judge  of  such  men, — all  wealth  to  them  was  dross, 

Not  from  his  hand  could  come  or  gain  or  loss. 

And  all  things  failed  him — kings  may  not  control 

The  God-inspired  and  heaven-directed  soul. 

The  body  may  be  scourged  or  given  to  death. 

The  soul  unchanged  breathes  out  its  latest  breath. 

And  thus  fell  these  three  brothers,  by  the  axe  laid  dead. 

For  following  Christ  the  Lord,  who  for  their  sakes  had  bled. 

And  when,  as  adding  insult  to  the  wrong. 
The  bodies  without  burial  out  were  flung, 
Came  Sinforosa,  void  of  any  fear, 
To  pay  all  rites  to  forms  she  held  so  dear, 
That  by  the  cruel  tyrant  were  cast  down 


102  Santa  Sin/or osa. 

To  be  the  mock  and  gibe  of  all  the  town. 

The  which  performed,  she  with  her  children  went 

And  sought  for  peace  in  self-made  banishment. 

And  there  her  children,  as  they  grew,  she  taught 

With  her  sweet  voice  to  know  that  life  is  naught 

If  wanting  honor  and  the  love  that  fills 

The  heart  with  strength  to  master  pain  and  ills, 

That  by  God's  grace,  or  for  some  human  fault. 

Are  sent  to  scourge,  yet  otherwise  exalt 

The  soul  that  suffers  and  is  not  afeared, 

Seeing  that  God,  when  God  himself  appeared 

In  guise  of  man,  the  like  inflictions  bore. 

And  on  his  regal  head  the  crown  of  sorrow  wore. 

Thus  did  she  teach  them,  and  the  days  went  by, 

And  beautiful  they  grew  unto  their  mother's  eye; 

Amid  a  solitude  of  trees  and  streams 

And  flowers  that  blew  and  ripened  in  the  gl^ms 

Of  summer  suns;  till,  by  some  fate  unseen 

Directed,  came  Lord  Adrian  to  the  scene; 

Who,  all  enchanted  at  a  sight  so  fair, 

Bade  men  erect  his  stately  palace  there, 

And  for  his  gods  a  temple,  so  that  he 

Might  not  be  wanting  to  his  deity. 

And  this  they  did;  but,  ere  the  fane  was  built, 

And  in  its  honor  Christian  blood  was  spilt; 

Since  that  great  oracle,  a  pagan  priest, 

Temptation  in  such  form  could  not  resist; 

And  Sinforosa,  as  her  lord  before. 

Was  bade  to  give  her  foolish  worship  o'er. 

Full  sad  was  Adrian  to  condemn  the  wife 

Who  in  such  way  would  not  redeem  her  life; 

And  to  each  word  such  noble  answer  gave, 

As  cowed  the  strong  and  would  have  won  the  brave, 

" Not  mine,"  she  said,  "the  life  that  I  do  hold; 


Santa  Sinforosa.  103 

'Tis  God's  own  gift,  and  He  doth  make  me  bold 

To  hold  my  faith,  and  should  you  burn  or  strike 

My  body  to  the  earth,  as,  should  you  like, 

You  have  such  power  on  earth  that  you  can  do, 

I  must  submit,  as  must  my  children  too; 

Or  young  or  old,  and  of  whatever  sex. 

The  Christian  soul  is  strong  and  may  not  vex 

Itself  with  fear  of  other  gods  or  man,— 

Who  having  done  the  best  or  worst  he  can, 

Sends  it  but  one  short  moment  in  advance 

To  where  it  goes  at  last,  in  spite  of  chance; 

And  thus,  great  lord,  I  bow  me  to  your  will, 

But  with  my  soul  defy  the  utmost  skill 

Of  you  and  of  your  gods,  for  I  and  mine 

Adore  the  living  God  and  may  not  bend  to  thine." 

Full  sad  was  Adrian,  and  for  days  did  pause, 
Trusting  to  change,  or  to  those  subtle  laws 
That  in  a  mother's  heart  hold  mighty  sway. 
When  from  her  offspring  she  is  torn  away; 
But  trusting  vainly,  for  this  mother  knew 
That-  God  was  great,  that  false  could  not  be  true, 
And  that  no  gain  could  come  to  any  one 
Flying  the  rod  by  His  own  hand  laid  on. 
For  who  hath  power  to  move  without  his  aid  ? 
So  for  her  children  was  she  less  afraid. 
And  when  her  time  to  its  last  hour  was  spent, 
Weeping,  but  firm,  and  straight  of  step  she  went 
To  where  the  priests  were  gathered  in  a  throng, 
Who  stoned  her  dead,  then  in  the  river  flung. 
A  form  that  while  it  held  a  living  will 
Tho'  not  as  God,  was  Godlike  in  its  skill. 
Her  husband,  then  herself,  and  next  were  tried 
Her  children,  too;  but  each  and  all  defied 
The  power  of  those  false  gods  and  tyrants  stern, 
To  make  them  bend,  or  ever  to  unlearn 


104  Santa  Sinforosa. 

The  lessons  deep  of  life  and  death  and  fate, 
Which  she  as  wife  and  mother,  when  elate 
With  such  high  titles,  all  divinely  p^ave 
To  guide  on  earth,  and  light  the  darksome  grave. 
And  mothers  all  should  from  her  pattern  take; 
For  men  are  still  but  what  their  mothers  make 
And  mould  in  mind,  when  life  itself  is  new, — 
Things  false  unknown,  if  she  herself  be  true ! 


RETRIBUTION. 

Where  first  he  had  lisped  her  name, 
Where  his  earliest  years  were  spent, 

In  sorrow,  not  anger,  he  came 
To  sigh  a  farewell  ere  he  went. 

CROWNING  mistake  of  a  wretched  life! 
Bitter,  bitter, — bitterest  pain; 
To  bear  and  to  wear  the  name  of  wife 

As  the  felon  must  wear  his  chain ! 
Peace,  peace,  I  am  robed  in  costly  gear, 

I  am  mistress  of  park  and  hall; 
The  things  that  I  coveted  once  are  here, 
Have  I*not,  have  I  not  all  ! 

All — let  the  daylight  shun  me  ever ! 

What  am  I  ? — a  bauble  bought  with  gold ! 
Nay — from  thyself  thou  can'st  hide  it  never, 

Poor  wretch,  touch,  kiss,  smile,  all  are  sold. 
I — I — Oh  that  the  earth  would  open  wide, — 

Bur^'  me  from  my  own  disgrace, — 
From  the  love  I  feel  and  must  ever  hide, 

And  the  scorn  of  my  pretty  face. 

Have  I  gone  mad  that  I  rave  like  a  child, 

For  a  sun  that  I  cannot  reach ,? 
Fool'd  by  a  dream  till  my  brain  grows  wild, 

My  tongue  falters,  breaks  in  its  speech ! 
What  is  it  ?     Who  knows  but  I  loved  him  best  ? 

And  my  mother  said  it  was  wise. 
Ah !  but  the  aching  pain  lives  in  my  breast, 

The  past  will  not  pass  from  my  eyes ! 

8 


io6  Retribution. 

He  came  to  the  church  to-day,  all  alone, — 

I  had  thought  "he  is  far  away;" 
If  grief  and  pain  for  sin  can  atone, 

I  have  suffered,  God  knows,  to-day! 
While  the  preacher  seemed  preaching  at  both, 

And  his  words  were  like  arrows  sure, — 
The  man,  he  said,  was  not  known  by  his  cloth, 

And  virtue  alone  was  secure ! 

Ah  me !  and  the  truth  went  home  to  my  heart, 

Made  it  bleed  with  an  inward  pain; 
And  I  turned  to  look  where  he  sat  apart. 

And  I  strove  to  pray,  but  in  vain. 
A  mad'ning  glimpse  of  the  wrong  I  had  done, 

Of  my  folly  and  pride  and  untruth; 
The  splendor,  the  worth,  from  life  was  gone — 

I  had  bartered  beauty  and  youth. 

! 
And  a  costly  misery  weighed  me  down, 

I  wept,  hot,  scalding,  impotent  tears; 
That  love  which  to  woman's  life  is  the  crown 

I  had  changed  for  a  waste  of  years; 
For  a  gilded  name,  for  a  wealth  of  dross; — 

I  had  sworn  it, — a  false,  false  love; 
On  my  brow,  in  my  heart,  burn'd  a  flaming  cross, 

And  a  curse  came  down  from  above. 

And  the  past  still  haunted  the  present  back; 

My  love  seemed  my  own  to  give; 
A  voice  and  a  hand  were  tracing  life's  track, 

And  were  teaching  my  soul  to  live; 
And  my  cheeks  were  lit  with  a  tender  blush, 

And  my  heart  thrill'd  at  the  tones 
Of  a  song  that  came  with  the  twilight  hush, 

Where  the  stream  ripples  over  the  stones. 


Retribution.  107 

The  soft  breeze  sigh'd  through  poplars  tall, 

And  a  trembling  kiss  was  given; 
While  the  gloaming  deep  grew  wide,  over  all, 

And  the  stars  came  forth  in  heaven. 
A  moment's  joy,  with  an  endless  grief, — 

Oh,  why  did  I  heed  what  they  said  ?  ' 

Not  yet  had  there  fallen  a  poplar  leaf 

That  had  fluttered  high  over  head, 

When  another  came,  and  my  heart  was  won, — 

Won  with  gold  and  a  mother's  tongue. 
Ah,  me!  I  may  never  undo  what  is  done; — 

And  shame,  like  a  serpent,  clung, 
Clung  to  my  heart  as  I  sat  'neath  God's  roof; 

As  I  heard  the  whispered  prayer; 
As  I  saw  him  sit  by  himself  aloof, — 

And  I  longed  to  kneel  to  him  there. 

The  pride  of  a  wife, — ^yes,  yes,  I  have,  pride — 

I  faltered  not  even  in  thought; 
But  the  sorrow,  grief,  the  desolate  void 

My  vanity  round  us  had  wrought ! 
Oh,  why  has  God  given  no  child  to  bless  t 

I  have  nothing  my  heart  calls  mine; 
And  the  love  of  the  man  whose  name  I  possess, 

I  scarcely  dare  call  it  mine. 

The  "might  have  been  "  once,  the  "never  to  be," 

Come  ever,  and  go  like  the  wind; 
From  myself,  from  my  thoughts,  I  cannot  flee. 

From  the  chaos  that  lives  in  my  mind; 
And  to  feel  and  to  know  that  he  scorns  me, 

And  to  know  that  his  scorn  is  just ! 
Wretchedness, — envying  all  it  can  see, — 

Ay,  even  the  worm  in  the  dust! 


io8  Death  in  Life. 

Why  did  he  come  ? — Was  it  right  ? — Let  him  go: 

Let  him  never  trouble  me  more; 
I  sin'd,  I  suifer,  but  he  must  not  know, 

Though  his  sorrow  lies  at  my  door. 
My  duty, — God  give  me  the  strength  to  bear 

This  heaviest  burden  of  time, — 
As  the  woman,  wife,  and  above  despair, 

My  punishment's  less  than  my  crime! 


DEATH  IN  LIFE. 

IT  is  not  death  and  loss 
Nor  heavy  years  like  dross, 
That  follow  after. 
That  tint  the  whitest  hair, 
That  bring  the  worst  despair, 
And  bitterest  laughter. 

These  come  from  love  declining. 
While  still  dear  eyes  are  shining 

All  clear  and  bright; 
While  yet  the  heart  is  beating. 
And  memory  keeps  repeating 

A  lost  delight. 

From  love,  forever  broken. 

From  passions,  wild  words  spoken, 

And  pride  accursed; 
Making  sad  hearts  defy, 
With  deadly  gleaming  eye. 

The  bitter  worst. 


Change.  109 


CHANGE. 

IT  fell  in  long  past  summer  hours, 
Wandering  amid  the  woods  and  bowers, 
Dreaming  a  dream  inspired  by  flowers. 

Little  he  knew,  as  thought  followed  thought, 
Catching  idly  at  things  that  never  were  caught, 
What  a  change  in  heart  and  life  should  be  wrought! 

He  had  play'd  in  the  sunshine  fancy  free, 
But  the  earnest  of  man  was  now  to  be 
Cut  deep  in  the  page  of  his  history; 

Cut  deep  by  the  hope  and  the  love  that  lends 
A  strength  to  the  heart  to  reach,  its  ends — 
A  strength  of  will  that  never  bends. 

Oh!  she  came — Earth's  child  of  truth  and  light — 
A  maiden  splendor  that  charmed  his  sight. 
And  his  pulses  rang  with  a  new  delight; 

And  ever,  forever,  the  boy  was  lost 

Past  all  returning,  youth's  boundaries  crossed. 

And  man  on  his  heart  and  his  brain  indorsed ! 

Graceful  she  was,  as  the  blossom  we  see 
Stir'd  by  the  wind  as  it  plays  through  the  tree; 
Yet  poor — ah !  but  love  knows  no  poverty, 

Save  only  in  spirit;  earth's  ashes  and  dust, 
Not  love;  may  be  timid  and  fearful  to  trust, 
Forgetting  the  lilies  in  sordid  lust! 

What  is  it  to  love  the  dross  called  gold  ? 
Love  is  for  the  strong,  the  brave  and  the  bold 
And  the  earth  is  for  them,  with  a  giant's  hold 


no  The  Future. 

They  wrest  from  it  even  the  corn  and  wine 
And  life's  best  treasure — a  joy  divine, 
And  a  wealth  of  hopes  that  may  never  tine. 

And  trials  that  come,  they  are  still  God-sent, 
For  the  bow  of  love  is  but  half-way  bent, 
Till  sorrow  to  joy  has  a  shadow  lent. 

They  met!  and  their  lives  anew  began. 

The  girl  and  the  boy  were  the  woman,  the  man; 

Thenceforth  and  forever,  the  moments  ran, 

And'  the  days  came  on,  and  were  changed  to  years, 
And  much  was  their  joy,  and  many  their  tears. 
Love  wove  in  life's  picture,  with  fond  hopes  and  fears. 


THE  FUTURE. 

HARVEST  of  love  and  joy! 
Autumn  of  hopes,  oh  happiest  dream 
Oh  glorious  future !  for  the  boy, 
And  for  the  man  what  stores  of  wealth  ye  hold 
Far  more  than  ever  yet  was  told 

By  human  tongue.     Thy  dazzling  stream 
Of  hours  and  years  and  of  eternity, 
Laden  with  loving  hearts  and  friends 
And  aims,  all  lost,  but  still  to  be 
Once  more  our  own  restored  to  us  by  thee, 
Bright  faiiy  vision !  vast  futurity 
Where  all  still  is,  where  nothing  ever  ends, 
But  like  two  rivers  rolling  to  the  sea. 
The  past  returning,  with  the  present  blends. 
Forming  the  ocean  of  eternity. 


CONSTANTIA. 

A  love  tale  that  begins  with  great  suffering  but  ends  happily.   Told  by  Emilia 
in  the  Decameron  of  Boccaccio— Second  Novel  of  the  Fifth  Day. 

HE  was  no  more: — then  what  was  Hfe  to  her.? 
Daylight  or  hope  1  since  all  was  lost  with  him. 
She  did  not  rave,  or  weep,  or  seek  to  stir 
A  sympathy  in  other  hearts;  no  whim 
Of  girlhood's  was  her  love;  death  could  not  dim, 
Nor  sympathy  relieve  it;  first  and  last, 

Life,  joy,  aye,  even  existence,  all  in  him 
For  her  were  centered,  and  with  him  had  passed; 
In  death  was  hope  alone,  in  his  dim  regions  vast. 

Yet  could  she  not,  the  beautiful  and  fair, 
With  dagger  harsh  her  lovely  form  deface; 

Altho'  resolved,  even  beyond  despair, 

Was  she  for  death;  perchance  it  was  the  grace — 
That  tender  something  in  sweet  woman  traced. 

That  must  do  all  things  daintily  and  neat — 

That  made  her  shrink  from  blood;  the  starlit  face 

Of  night  on  the  hushed  bay  and  lonely  street 

Smiled,  as  she  stood  where  earth  and  ocean  meet. 

A  stricken  heart,  most  sad,  beyond  a  gleam 

Of  hope  to  touch  her  in  her  dark  desire; 
Hers  was  not  life,  it  was  a  fitful  dream 

Lit  by  wild  thoughts;  as  unextinguished  fire, 

Or  thunder  clouds,  dart  forth  in  sudden  ire 
A  flame,  a  flash,  life  in  her  came  and  went — 

Her  lover  in  his  beauty,  then  her  sire 
In  sordid  meanness,  and  whose  will  had  rent 
Their  lives  asunder,  with  her  dream  were  blent. 


112  Constantia. 

And  she  would  start  and  then  again  grow  still, 

Ever  as  the  dream  did  move  her  mind 
Beyond  her  settled  purpose,  and  her  will. 

The  expression  of  her  face  grew  soft  and  kind. 

And  with  her  hair  she'd  play,  that  in  the  wind 
Disported  gently,  as  though  one  were  near 

Who  might  have  wished  her  lovely  locks  to  bind, 
And  who,  she  knew,  did  hold  them  more  than  dear; 
A  moment  this  would  last,  then  all  again  grow  sere. 

And  her  clenched  hand  and  quivering  lip  would  tell 
Of  deepest  suffering  and  resolve  as  deep; 

Her  startled  eye  upon  the  landscape  fell, 

Seeking  for  something;  then,  as  if  from  steep 
And  fearful  height  she  strove  herself  to  keep 

From  falling,  would  she  cling  unto  the  rock; 
The  awful  law  of  life  her  soul  did  steep 

In  these  strong  fears;  none  can  resist  the  shock 

Wedded  to  self-sought  death,  however  grief  may  mock, 

Or  faith  may  hope,  or  earthly  ills  bow  down. 

So  was  she  shaken  till  the  stars  grew  faint, 
And  the  first  dawn  of  day  the  hills  did  crown; 

When  pale  and  speechless  as  a  marble  saint, 

And  beautiful,  and  all  without  a  taint 
Of  passion,  or  of  hope,  she  made  her  way 

To  where  the  ebbing  waves  in  gentle  plaint 
Receded  to  the  deep  and  distant  bay, 
And  there  she  loosed  a  boat  that  all  untended  lay. 

The  which  she  entered,  and  with  her  fair  hands 
Guided  it  forth  towards  the  mighty  sea. 

When  in  the  distance  sunk  the  lessening  lands, 
And  when,  with  ocean  and  eternity, 
Alone  she  was  in  her  extremity, 

Rudder  and. oars  away  from  her  she  threw; 


Constantia.  113 

Trusting  that  death  would  end  her  misery. 
Once  more  she  look'd  to  the  o'erhanging  blue, 
And,  meaning  no  more  to  rise,  lay  prone  and  dreamt  anew. 

Herself  she  knew  not;  was  this  her  who  lay 

Lonely  and  loveless,  in  a  boat  that  sped 
Driven  by  winds  at  will,  in  sportive  play, 

On  where  the  wide  and  trackless  ocean  spread } 

Or  was  that  her  with  garlands  round  her  head, 
Crown'd  queen  of  hope  in  fair  Lipari's  groves, 

That  in  the  dance  so  daintily  doth  tread. 
Singing  for  joy,  while  lovingly  there  moves 
About  her  one  who  smiles  but  never  distant  roves  ? 

Which  is  the  real  and  which  the  counterfeit  ? 

She  seems  to  know  not;  and  they  mix  and  change. 
What  has  been  and  what  is  like  visions  flit 

Before  her;  all, — -yet  nothing  seemeth  strange. 

So  will  the  shaken  mind  forever  range 
Through  life,  while  trembling  on  the  brink 

Of  deep  eternity,  awaiting  change. 
The  soul,  in  this  one  pause,  appears  to  drink 
A  draught  that  calls  to  life  all  forms  and  scenes  that  link 

The  past  unto  the  present; — and  to  her 

Whose  life  from  one  great  hope  and  one  alone 
Had  grown  and  gathered  strength,  did  these  recur 

With  wonderous  vividness,  each  grace  and  tone; 

And  joy  and  fear  that  once  had  been  her  own. 
Did  she  re-live  in  her  bewildered  brain. 

While,  in  the  boat,  she  listened  to  the  moan 
And  plash  of  waves;  but  void  of  any  pain 
Or  fear  or  pleasure,  life's  dream  came  back  again. 

As  not  to  her,  but  to  that  other  self 

That  lived  when  hope  still  shone; — day  sank  to  night; 
And  night  deepened  to  darkness;  but  the  gulf 


114  Constantia. 

Dividing  life  from  immortality  and  light 

Was  still  unpassed;  she  lived  and  breathed,  and  bright 
,The  stars  came  forth  above  the  restless  deep, 

And  their  sweet  stillness  and  their  calm  delight, 
Together  with  the  gentle  voice  and  sweep 
Of  ocean's  song,  lulled  her  tired  brain  to  sleep 

A  calm  and  gentle  sleep;  no  storm  arose 

To  ruffle  ocean's  breast,  or  angrily 
To  wake  the  billows;  lovingly  seemed  to  close 

Above  her  and  about  her  nature's  lullaby; 

As  if  hej-  God,  in  his  great  sympathy 
With  her,  His  sorrowing  child,  had  bade  be  still 

The  elements;  the  boat  most  quietly 
Yet  swiftly  flew  before  the  breeze  at  will, 
And  no  harsh  sound  or  shock  disturbed  her  there,  until 

And  just  as  morning  broke  above  the  earth. 

It  grounded  on  a  sloping  pebbly  beach; 
And  she  awoke  as  if  to  a  new  birth; 

And  once  again  heard  kindly  human  speech ! 

Safe  through  all  dangers  did  her  frail  barque  reach 
A  friendly  port;  she  dare  no  more  rebel. 

Not  vainly  such  a  lesson  love  can  preach 
To  any  gentle  soul;  and  so  it  fell 
Constantia  was  beguiled  on  earth  again  to  dwell. 

A  rough  exterior,  but  a  noble  heart 

Had  that  poor  fisher's  wife,  and  knew  to  speak 

Those  words  that  to  a  suiferer  can  impart 

A  better  strength  than  ever  sprang  from  weak 
And  polished  sympathy;  she  sought  to  break 

Constantia's  grief,  by  telling  o'er  her  own; 

Showing,  though  tried,  a  faith  that  dared  to  seek 

Even  in  grief  and  loss,  the  love  of  one 

Who  guides  not  vainly  all  beneath  the  sun. 


Constantia.  115 

She  't  was  that  found  her  in  her  boat,  in  tears, 
And  bid  her  kindly  welcome  to  her  home, — 

A  poor  and  humble  home.     Alas !  she  fears 

The  fare  may  be  too  coarse;  but  when  they  come 
To  know  each  other,  and  the  deadly  numb 

Hath  something  left  the  heart  of  her  poor  guest. 
She  saw  how  little  worldly  wealth  could  charm 

A  mind  with  such  a  load  of  anguish  prest. 

And  sought  by  other  means  to  soothe  her  into  rest. 

Nor  vainly  sought;  and  peace  became  the  lot 

Of  sad  Constantia;  and  she  grew 
Calm,  pale,  but  almost  pulseless;  not  forgot, 

But  hidden,  was  her  grief;  her  heart  still  true 

Beat  to  no  other  hope;  she  did  not  sue 
To  heaven  for  death,  but  bore  all  things  that  came 

As  if  to  suifer  were  but  her  just  due 
For  that  premeditated  crime;  her  name 
And  place  of  birth  did  she  conceal  till  fame 

And  rumor  of  great  wars  spread  in  the  land 

The  praise  of  one,  called  like  her  lover  lost, 
Who'd  served  the  king; — a  prisoner  and 

An  alien  years  agone;  sold  by  a  host 

Of  pirates  into  bondage  on  the  coast. 
Then  did  she  sue  to  see  him  ;  and  her  tale 

From  first  to  last,  told  to  her  friend.     It  cost 
Her  many  tears;  these  and  her  face  so  pale 
Had  moved  the  stoniest  heart  to  help  a  thing  so  frail ! 

And  they  to  Tunis  went,  where  dwelt  the  king; 

And  with  a  lady  of  \that  place  was  left 
Constantia;  who,  like  to  a  new-born  spring 

Full  of  sweet  music,  as  with  magic  gift 

Won  every  heart;  of  joy  no  more  bereft. 
Her  gentle  beauty  and  her  goodness  bloomed 


1 1 6  Cofistantia. 

With  hope,  strong  hope,  that  seemed  to  lift 
From  off  her  fate  the  darkness  that  had  loomed 
And  for  a  space  too  long  her  faith  and  worth  consumed. 

In  vain  the  lady  preached  of  doubt  and  chance, 

Of  might  not  be;  Constantia  felt  within 
A  secret  surety,  which  did  enhance 

Her  joy,  and  her  confusion  for  that  sin; 

And  most  devoutedly  she  sought  to  win. 
By  fullest  thanks  and  by  her  deep  devotion, 

A  pardon  for  her  crime.     It  was  not  in 
Her  nature  to  hope  less;  her  every  motion 
Was  joyous  prayer  for  this  her  happy  portion. 

At  length  the  day  arrived  when,  to  the  court, 

Her  friend,  who'd  craved  an  audience,  was  gone. 

The  hours  seemed  long;  and  then  again  seemed  short 
At  her  return;  while  in  her  face  there  shone 
The  assurance  of  the  hope;  and  there  were  none 

Who  did  not  share  the  joy  that  sparkled,  flashed 
From  that  sweet  face  erewhile  so  woe-begone, 

That  now  with  tears  and  now  with  sunshine  dashed, 

Beam'd  like  a  day  in  spring  when  winter  shrinks  abashed. 

And  who  shall  tell  the  joy  and  the  delight 

When  these  tv/o  lovers  met  again  and  saw 
The  picture  stretch  before  them  clear  and  bright; 

Their  earth  and  heaven  without  a  single  flaw. 

Such  joy  hath  been  and  shall  be,  and  is  law 
To  those  who  love,  so  they  be  true,  nor  let 

A  change  their  hearts  from  their  one  idol  draw; 
But  ever  to  that  deepest  music  set, 
Know  love  can  never  die  or  fail  to  pay  its  debt. 

It  may  not  be  in  time;  but  it  must  come; 

The  faith  is  all;  the  power  to  wait  and  watch 
And  hope  if  needed,  yet  beyond  the  tomb; 


Left.  117 

And  from  love's  lore  this  brightest  truth  to  catch 
That  nothing  is  in  vain;  that  none  can  match 
The  care  that  guides  and  governs  human  fate; 

That  all  in  their  due  course  must  reach 
The  destined  goal;  nor  early,  nor  too  late, 
But  at  the  appointed  time  wake  joyous  and  elate. 

And  so  these  lovers  passed  to  their  own  clime 

Loaded  with  gifts,  and  happy  words  that  spoke 
Respect  and  love;  the  while,  their  marriage  chime 

Rang  in  their  ears;  and  from  the  people  broke 

A  loud  acclaim;  their  constancy  awoke 
In  every  heart  a  chord  of  joy  and  pride. 

Not  less,  to-day,  the  love  that  bears  its  yoke 
Bravely,  shall  meet  such  greetings  deep  and  wide. 
And  peace  and  joy  shall  crown  the  bridegroom  and  the 
bride. 


LEFT. 


A  STRAIN  of  fancied  music,  heard. 
Through  sorrows  yearning  fears. 
As  through  the  clouds  the  lark's  first  hymn. 
When  the  God  of  day  appears. 

A  voice,  at  which  the  soul  is  stirred. 
Pouring  songs  of  love  to  earth, 
Telling  of  an  immortal  birth, 
In  floods  of  sweetest  melody. 
Such  is  memory's  dream  of  thee. 

A  spirit  star  in  heaven  shining, 

A  rainbows  glory  bright. 
Something  for  which  the  soul  is  pining, 

Pining  with  strange  delight. 


Il8  Her  Kiss. 

SYLVAN  DEITIES. 

BEAUTIFUL  spirits! 
Not  only  in  the  poets  dream-wove  page 
Ye  lingering  dwell,  each  wood  and  dell 
Is  peopled  still  with  you — in  every  age. 

Beautiful  spirits! 
Ye  inhabit  earth;  though  veiled  from  mortal  eye, 

The  impress  is  seen  and  thy  care  hath  been 
Where  the  lilies  spring  and  the  dewdrops  lie. 

Beautiful  spirits! 
Not  worshipped  alone  in  days  that  are  sped, 

Where  a  flower  may  blow  or  a  stream  may  flow 
Ye  have  worshippers  still,  not-  lost  nor  fled. 

Beautiful  spirits! 
Symboled  by  things  that  are  fair  and  good, 

Guardians  of  flowers  and  genii  of  hours. 
Still  are  ye  haunting  the  meadow  and  wood. 

In  the  scent  of  the  flower,  the  song  of  the  stream, 

In  the  bow-crowned  shower  and  the  rip'ning  gleam, 
Beautiful  spirits  of  earth  and  of  air, 
No  fabled  existence,  your  dwellings  are  there. 


HER  KISS. 

OH  !  could  the  heart  but  tell  its  gladness. 
When  thy  lips  to  mine  are  pressed, 
'Twould  blot  a  thousand  years  of  sadness 

And  make  them  all  look  blest. 
To  thread  time's  labyrinth  through  and  through 

Appears  a  task  too  small. 
To  win  such  perfect  happiness, 
Thy  love  o'er  pays  it  all. 


October.  1 1 9 


OCTOBER. 

"  Covetous  Death  bereaved  us  all 
To  aggrandize  one  funeral." — Emerson. 

ALWAYS  sad,  but  sadder  now, 
I  tread  the  withered  leaves  among, 
(They  He  as  care-marks  on  the  brow 
Of  one  disease,  or  time  doth  bow), 
The  woods  and  fields  along. 

On  Nature's  face  like  wrinkles,  here 

Swept  by  the  wind  in  heaps  they  lie, 
As  Earth  had  fallen  to  the  sere, 
The  cheerless,  desolate,  and  drear, 
And  still  her  lingering  beauties  die. 

The  clouds  above  are  cold  and  grey, 
A  pestilence  seems  o'er  the  scene. 
Fair  forms  are  changed  by  foul  decay 
To  sights  from  which  we  turn  away. 

And  none  could  guess  what  once  hath  been. 

I  hold  man  has  no  right  to  grieve. 

Or  I  would  sit  me  down  and  weep 
That  things  so  dear  so  soon  should  leave 
But  memory  their  forms  to  weave 
From  fancy  and  the  shades  of  sleep. 

I  hold  man  lives  to  love  and  bear 
And  bide  the  task  he  finds  to  do. 

That  cravens  only  know  despair; 

He  with  his  might  of  faith  should  dare 
Believe  in  joy  and  sorrow  too; 

That  all  things  loved  and  lost  on  earth. 
Though  he  can  neither  touch  nor  see, 


1 20  October. 

Are  still  to  him  of  priceless  worth, 
A  dowry  given  to  him  at  birth, 
And  his  through  all  eternity. 

The  flowers  that  fade,  the  leaves  that  fall, 

The  slumberers  in  the  silent  grave; 
First,  last  and  dearest  dream  of  all, 
The  heart  with  love  would  fain  recall. 
And  memory  from  oblivion  save. 

Are  they  not  his  in  hope's  bright  dream  ? 

Oh,  there  are  things  as  sure  as  death ! 
Say,  who  can  stay  a  gushing  stream 
That  strives  to  ripple  and  to  gleam 

Sun,  stars,  and  clouds  beneath  ? 

Stop  up  its  spring,  it  still  will  find 

Another  outlet  for  its  birth; 
Such  power  I  hold  belongs  to  mind, 
That  yearns  to  mingle  with  its  kind, 

As  may  not  yield  to  common  earth; 

But  it  will  find  a  path  to  where 

Things  still  exist,  though  lost  to  time. 

Look  up,  brave  heart,  and  be  of  cheer; 

Somewhere  within  a  distant  sphere 

They  live  and  love,  and  thou  shalt  climb. 

For  love  is  stronger  far  than  death. 

And  mind  can  rule  the  grosser  clay; 
And  hope  oudives  the  latest  breath 
That  mortals  yield  to  phantom  death; 
These  end  not  with  the  passing  day. 

Look  up,  God's  heaven  is  full  of  light. 

Infinity  doth  gird  thee  round; 
Past,  present,  future,  day  and  night, 
Far-stretching  far  beyond  thy  sight, 
Are  in  its  depths  profound. 


The  Withered  Leaves.  121 

And  somewhere,  though  we  cannot  trace 
The  loved,  the  lost,  the  once  possessed, 
Amid  its  ever  deep'ning  space 
The  soul  shall  find  their  resting  place, 
As  sea  birds  find  the  far  off  nest. 


THE  WITHERED   LEAVES. 

LIKE  the  sorrowing  wail  of  the  heart  when  it  grieves. 
Is  the  fitful  tale  of  the  fallen  leaves; 
Scattered  around,  around,  around, 
Withered  and  yellow  they  cover  the  ground. 

Sighings  and  moanings  fill  the  air, 
And  restless  spirits  seem  everywhere. 

Trailing,  rusding,  round,  round,  round, 

Yellow  leaves  bestrew  the  ground. 

They  whirl  and  sweep,  they  rise  and  fall, 

They  quiver  and  leap  over  all; 

Winter  has  kissed  them,  they  are  dying. 
And  as  they  pass  for  the  past  are  sighing. 

Sobbing,  sighing,  woe,  still  w'oe, 

The  leaves  are  sighing  as  they  go. 
Falling  by  thousands  at  every  breeze, 
Rent  with  a  moan  from  their  parent  trees. 

Scattered  around,  around,  around, 

Once  beautiful  leaves  bestrew  the  ground; 
Remnants  of  summer  how  swift  in  decay. 
Like  all  that  we  love,  ye  are  passing  away. 
9 


122  There. 


THE  RIVULET. 

RIPPLING,  rippling,  all  the  day  long, 
Hark  to  the  rivulets  murmuring  song; 
Glittering  over  the  pebbles  and  glancing 
In  and  out  mid  forget-me-nots,  dancing 
To  the  tune  of  waves  as  they  sparkle  and  play, 
In  their  musical  mirth  the  livelong  day. 

Onward,  still  onward  with  melody  wild 
As  the  blithesome  notes  of  a  happy  child, 
That  frames  no  word  with  its  eloquent  tongue. 
But  breathes  out  a  bird-like  flood  of  song. 
Oh  it  rolls  and  ripples  and  bubbles  free, 
Singing  of  natures  deep  harmony. 

Though  wove  into  rhyme  by  a  poet's  brain. 
What  are  man's  words  to  this  artless  strain; 
To  the  joyous  carols  of  bird  and  stream. 
Or  the  murmurs  sweet  of  childhood's  dream; 
Woe  born  and  weak  they  break  up  the  spell,  ' 
Of  raptures  like  these  words  are  but  the  knell. 


THERE. 

AND  fondly  in  our  dreams  of  hope  and  love. 
Or  when  bereaved  of  both  we  turn  to  heaven, 
As  though  the  orbs  serenely  bright  that  move 
Through  its  immensity  had  to  them  given 
A  power  upon  our  destiny — There, 
Ever  there,  we  turn,  as  if  to  meet 
The  face  whose  smile  can  lighten  our  despair. 
Make  grief  less  harsh  or  joy  itself  more  sweet. 


SAINT  PEDRO  OF  LUXEMBURG  AND 
HIS  MIRACLE. 

Note. — This  Saint,  whose  feast  is  celebrated  on  the  fifth  of  July,  was  canon- 
ized by  Clemente  VII.  He  affected  great  austerity,  greater  humility  and 
had  performed  (according  to  the  register  kept  in  his  church  in  the  Valley  of 
Avignon),  no  less  than  2400  miracles,  when  the  last  accounts  were  published  in 
"the  Christian  year"  of  1866.  When  appointed  to  his  first  See,  he  made  the 
journey  on  a  donkey,  in  hopes  of  gaining  greater  power  over  the  people  by  thus 
recalling  Christ  to  their  minds,  and  by  showing  himself  so  free  from  pride.  He 
used  the  whip  to  himself  freely,  and  ate  but  once  a  day.  He  died  requesting  his 
servants  to  chastise  him,  for  having  so  often  set  them  a  bad  example  at  the  table. 

OH !  ye  heritics  all — Jew,  Protestant,  Turk, 
Mahomedan,  Atheist,  Hindoo,  Rosicrucian! 
Leave  the  devil  alone  to  mind  his  own  work, — 

Come  and  hear  what  a  saint  of  ours  can  do  for  a  man! 
Hear  and  believe,  for  this  is  no  jest : 
No  trumped  up  tale 
Of  a  Prophet  and  Veil, 
Of  fiery  spirits  that  know  no  rest! 
No  question  of  monkey,  ape,  or  ox, 

Or  of  nature  being  its  own  great  cause; 
No  picture  of  grapes,  that  are  not  for  the  fox, 

But  a  proof  over  which  none  need  to  pause, 
To  know  that  the  Church  delegated  by  Peter 

To  represent  heaven,  is  not  only  true, 
But  the  very  height  of  religious  perfection. 
And  has  with  the  saints  direct  connexion. 
So  is  able  to  see  all  her  children  through. 

Our  hero  in  life  was  a  Bishop  of  Grace, 

And  in  Metz  had  the  finest  house  in  the  place. 


124  Saint  Pedro. 

But  he  entered  the  town  on  a  donkey's  back 
To  show  that  his  mind  was  free  from  a  crack, 
And  because  he  thought  it  the  thing  to  draw  down 
An  admiring  gaze,  from  the  whole  of  the  town, 
To  see  a  Priest  so  powerful  as  he 
Clothed  in  such  sweet  humility; 
And  also  because,  as  he  was  a  stranger. 
The  sight  might  recall  that  "  child  in  the  manger  " 
Whose  doctrine  he  came  to  expound  and  enlarge, 
And  show  that  the  Pope  had  them  under  his  charge ! 

He'd  a  soul  energetic 

In  prayer  and  in  fast! 
And  in  life  was  ascetic 
From  the  first  to  the  last; 
And  many  things  more  in  visions  he  saw 
Than  are  shown  to  mortals. 
Who  take  kindly  their  meat  and  who  thank  God  and  eat; 

The  very  own  portals 
Of  heaven  he  saw  once,  in  a  vision;  and  angels  came  down 
And  offered  him  there  a  most  glittering  crown. 

That  so  dazzled  his  senses,  he  fainted  and  fell 
In  a  puddle  of  mud,  so  slushy  and  brown 
His  servant  feared  it  would  spoil  his  new  gown! 
But  when  he  rose  up  the  marvel  to  tell, 
Not  a  single  stain 
Of  mud  did  remain 
On  the  holy  man,  by  which  it  is  plain 
That  everything  foul  must  turn  and  flee. 
From  a  Priest  in  the  pride  of  his  purity! 

With  a  thought  unconfessed 
He  could  never  rest, — 
Which  is  always  the  way  with  these  "  better  than  best " 
Kind  of  souls,  that  are  farthest  from  sin  and  from  flames; 
They  appear  to  glory  in  deeds  which  molest 
Other  men,  and  in  calling  themselves  ugly  names, 


Saint  Pedro.  125 

And  proclaiming  their  faults,  which  turn  out  to  be  nix, 
But,  if  true,  would  perforce  get  their  souls  in  a  fix ; 
This  humility  wanting  in  truth  saints  are  given  to — 
In  them  such  lying 's  considered  a  virtue, 

And  each  one  lays  them  on 
To  suit  his  own  case, 
As  our  lady  friends  do,  the  paint  on  their  face. 

When  this  one  was  dying 

And  his  servants  were  crying 
For  grief  at  the  loss  of  their  master,  they  said 

He  managed  once  more. 

Though  it  troubled  him  sore, 
To  sit  quite  upright  again  in  his  bed. 

He  thanked  all  for  their  kindness, 

But  he  showed  it  was  blindness 
To  esteem  him  as  aught  but  a  very  great  sinner, 
Who  had  often  and  often  ate  far  too  much  dinner; 
And  set,  by  such  means  a  fearful  example 
For  which  he  now  begged  a  pardon  as  ample ! 
But,  fearing  that  this  would  not  purge  out  his  sin, 
He  bade  each  one  take  up  a  stout  "  discipline  " 
(A  kind  of  a  whip  the  saints  all  use 
When  in  for  a  treat,  their  backs  to  abuse :) 
And  lay  it  on  bravely  his  shoulders  about. 
And  make  his  too  sinful  blood  fly  out; 
He  begged  them,  he  pray'd  them,  would  admit  of  no  nay, 
So  at  last  they  just  let  the  sweet  soul  have  his  way, 
And  laid  on  the  lash  to  keep  off  the  flies; 
While  "  harder  and  harder,"  were  the  hero-like  cries 
Of  the  saint,  till  at  last,  with  the  fullest  content 
He  thanked  them  again,  and  then  quietly  went 
Oif  into  a  dose — from  which,  when  he  arose 
Is  a  kind  of  certainty  nobody  knows, 
From  the  poor  ranting  parson  to  the  high  chanting  Pope  I 
That  "  rising  again  "  takes  the  form  of  a  hope, 


126  Saint  Pedro. 

And  personal  experience  stops  at  the  door 

With  Hfe's  exit,  then  blank,  and, — who  knows  what  more  ? 

But  enough  of  this  strain  in  a  doubtful  vein ! 

Turn  we  at  once  to  our  saint  again. 

I  have  shown  you  the  man,  in  this  world  lull  of  strife 

And  now  for  the  miracle  wrought  after  life. 

It  is  one  picked  at  random  from  two  thousand  four  hundred, 

All  of  which  he  performed,  and  never  once  blundered, 

As  the  monks  can  attest,  in  that  Vale  Avignon, 

Where  they  raised  him  a  church  in  which  to  work  on 

In  aid  of  the  Pope  and  priests,  who  abound 

In  very  large  shoals,  on  that  sanctified  ground. 

A  little  bird  built  a  warm  nest  in  its  tower, 

To  have  it  quite  out  of  all  cruel  boys'  power 

To  steal  or  molest  her  young  brood  when  it  came, 

And  perhaps,  also,  because  she  respected  the  Fane; 

For  she,  too,  was  Catholic  and  Roman,  perforce, — 

Being  born  in  the  church  this  was  "  matter  of  course," 

From  the  first  to  the  last  her  hatching  went  well, 

And  the  little  ones  crept  one  by  one  from  the  shell; 

And  their  mother  with  food  flew  in  and  flew  out; 

When  a  mischievous  boy  who  lived  there  about 

Fixed  his  eye  on  these  doings,  and  was  heard  to  declare 

He  would  have  at  that  nest,  though  so  high  in  the  air. 

Away  up  he  goes,  higher  and  higher, 
(The  nest  was  between  the  tower  and  the  spire 
On  a  sort  of  projection,  it  might  be  a  spout, 
This  much  of  the  question  admits  of  a  doubt.) 
But  what  follows  is  certain; — in  striving  to  touch 
The  place  where  he  hoped  the  rich  booty  to  clutch, 
He  somehow  lost  his  balance,  and  downward  he  fell 
With  a  dreadful  "whiz  "  and  a  half  smothered  yell. 
Plump  on  to  the  angle  where  the  building  increases, 
Which  dashed  him  at  once  to  a  thousand  small  pieces 


Saint  Pedro.  127 

That  fell  in  the  street,  as  when  tempests  come  down 
In  drops  that  are  said  to  be  big  as  a  crown ! 
The  people  then  passing  looked  up  with  amaze,. 
But  as  nothing  more  fell,  they  diverted  their  gaze 
To  brains,  arms,  and  legs,  and  splinters  of  bones, 
That  in  fragments  lay  scattered  about  on  the  stones. 
At  last  came  a  cry  of,  "  Oh  my !  its  Tom  Jones ! 
That  idle  young  scamp  who  has  ended  his  days 
As  we  all  said  he  would,  if  he  kept  such  bad  ways!  " 

Now  Tom's  father,  poor  man,  had  a  small  something  wrong 

A  kind  of  a  rift  all  his  roof  tiles  among, 

Not  sufficient  to  merit  the  full  term  of  madness, 

But  a  predisposition  to  confession  and  sadness; 

With  a  powerful  belief  in  the  church  and  its  people, 

From  the  dirtiest  chorister  to  the  point  of  its  steeple. 

But  his  principal  faith  was  Peter  the  second, 

As  I  think  this  Peter  of  ours  must  be  reckoned. 

He  had  dusted  his  church  and  his  altar  for  years. 

Made  free  use  of  his  name  when  his  heart  filled  with  fears; 

And  fancied  he'd  had  of  his  favors  no  few, 

Though  in  what  they  consisted,  he  perhaps  scarcely  knew. 

When  he  heard  what  a  fate  had  his  Tom  overtaken, 

His  whole  nervous  system  was  very  much  shaken; 

He  went  at  once  on  his  knees,  gave  way  to  despair, 

Rolled  wildly  his  eyes,  and  pulled  hard  at  his  hair; 

But  words  came  at  last,  and  the  first  that  he  spake, 

Was  "St.  Peter,"  at  which  all  his  faith  seemed  to  wake. 

He  pauses  not  now,  he  takes  hold  of  a  sack. 

And  throws  it  at  once  with  skill  on  his  back. 

And  is  off  to  the  place,  nay,  is  there  in  a  crack ; 

And  collecting  the  bits,  both  of  limbs  and  of  clothing. 

And  the  dust  stained  with  blood  without  the  least  loathing; 

All  he  drops  in  the  sack,  as  if  filling  a  pastry. 

And  then  puts  for  the  church  in  very  great  haste.    He 


128  Saint  Pedro. 

Deposits  the  sack  on  St.  Peter's  own  shrine, 
And  lights  up  the  candles,  to  the  number  of  nine; 
That  done  he  pauses  a  second,  not  more, 
And  again  is  gone  like  a  shot  through  the  door; 
To"  summon  the  priests,  and  invite  all  his  friends 
To  assist  and  watch  how  the  catastrophe  ends. 

Now  this  church's  receipts  had  diminished  of  late, 

On  account  of  a  new  one  that  opened  in  state 

With  three  hairs  of  Peter,  the  saint  and  apostle, 

(For  churches  like  other  professions  may  jostle 

In  interest  at  times);  and  these  three  precious  hairs 

Had  made  the  new  fathers  to  put  on  such  airs 

As  disgusted  their  brothers,  who  wanted  to  know 

What  were  "  three  hairs  ?  "  they'd  a  whole  saint  to  show! 

But  now  came  the  time,  with  Tomjones's  mishap, 
To  arouse  up  their  saint  from  his  rather  long  nap, 
And  show  to  the  world  by  his  consummate  skill 
That  Achilles,  though  sleeping,  was  Achilles  still; 
Oh,  the  heart  of  each  father  grew  light  as  a  feather, 

As  they  started  to  put  poor  Tommy  together. 

« 

In  the  church  there  were  thousands  (if  thousands  it  held) 
While  each  to  his  neighbor  iron-like  seemed  to  weld, 
In  the  pushing  and  crushing,  that  threatened  to  smother 
Or  change  arms  and  legs  from  this  one  to  that  other; 
And  no  one  could  count  these  members  their  own, 
As  the  organ  gave  out  its  most  sonorous  tone; 
And  the  priests,  in  full  voice,  struck  up  in  the  praise 
Of  the  saint  they  had  lived  on  for  so  many  days. 

But  just  half  the  service  has  chanted,  w^hen — crack ! 
A  strong  word  was  shot  from  the  mouth  of  the  sack; 
And  after  some  struggling,  young  Tommy  stepped  out 
To  bid  his  friend  Stephen  to  keep  a  look  out 
*'  On  the  nest  since  he'd — halloa!  what  does  this  mean  " 
"  Oh !  Jago,"  said  he,  "  what  a  very  strange  dream !  " 


Saint  Pedro.  129 

Now  the  people  all  rushed  the  youth  to  behold, 
And  the  monks  feared  his  tale  would  perish  untold, 
For  Tommy  restored  to  life  and  sensation 
Was  in  danger  of  dying  from  sheer  suffocation ! 
Which  caused  them  to  issue,  a  strong  prohibition 
'Gainst  coming  too  close,  while,  in  full  exhibition, 
They  placed  Tom,  on  the  highest  first  step  of  the  altar, 
So  that  none  in  the  crowd,  of  their  wishes  could  falter; 
There  he  stood,  till  was  cleared  out  the  last  hungry  sinner, 
After  which  he  went  home  with  the  priests  to  his  dinner. 

Tom  after  that  day  thought  no  more  of  the  nest. 
But  of  chorister  boys  he  made  one  of  the  best; 
Attended  to  church,  was  so  changed  in  his  spirit 
That  he  won  to  high  grades  which  told  to  his  credit. 
But  his  wicked  companions  all  of  them  swore 
He  was  not  the  same  Tom  "  as  they'd  know'd  afore!  " 
"  That  Tom  was  a  sharp  un,  and  'know'd  what  he  know'd,' 
But  this  was  a  '  soft  un '  as  might  go  and  be  blowed." 

The  father  of  Tom,  in  the  wildest  delight, 
Pray'd  his  last  to  the  saint  on  that  very  same  night; 
And  the  doctor's  discovered  (but  then  he  was  dead). 
That  the  shock  was  too  strong  for  his  very  weak  head ; 
So  the  church  gave  up  its  fees,  in  toto,  and  found 
A  coffin  and  pall,  and  a  small  slip  of  ground. 
And  the  priests  at  the  funeral  all  chanted  in  pairs. 
And  have  laughed  ever  since  at  the  "Three  Precious 
Hairs." 


130  Her  Grave. 


HER  GRAVE. 

AND  love  shall  come  full  circle  yet, 
In  spite  of  partings  and  of  tears; 
And  joy  be  like  a  jewel  set 

In  life,  not  measured  out  by  years, 
But  living  by  a  fuller  faith, 

And  higher  hope,  and  deeper  trust: 
Treading  with  firmer  steps  the  path 
That  leads  unto  the  good  and  just! 

The  soul  shall  wake  and  live  once  more; 

And  not  in  vain,  oh !  not  in  vain ! 
To  win  the  crown  that  fancy  wore 

When  coming  years,  like  golden  grain, 
Were  still  before  us  and  the  task 

Seemed  but  to  reap  and  gather  in; 
And  when  to  have  was  but  to  ask, 

And  when  to  love  was  sure  to  win ! 

Ah  me !  The  mound  has  long  grown  green, 

The  stone  itself  is  rich  with  moss; 
And  all  the  years  that  since  have  been. 

Were  heavy  with  a  love  and  loss. 
The  air  is  filled  with  trembling  sound, 

With  voice  like  whisperings,  heard  of  old 
As  summer  twilight  deepens  round. 

And  shadows  gather,  fold  on  fold. 

About  the  grave  of  her  I  loved. 

Alas !  she  never  bore  my  name. 
Yet  not  the  less  she  lived  and  moved 

The  first,  the  dearest,  in  life's  game. 
The  graceful  girl  of  summers  back. 

The  woman,  forty  years  agone ! 


Her  Grave.  131 

Do  human  hearts  break  on  the  rack  ? 
Ah,  no,  the  brave  ones  still  live  on! 

And  true  to  love  is  true  to  life; 

To  live,  to  master  pain  and  grief. 
And,  oh!  not  breathe  the  name  of  wife, 

But  to  he  worthy,  brings  relief. 
Love  lives  not  less  without  return: 

Another's  thou  ?  alas,  not  so ! 
Death  comes:  old  fires  anew  may  burn — 

I  love  the  girl  of  long  ago ! 

I  love  the  woman,  once  a  child. 

My  playfellow  in  far-off  years. 
Grown  earnest,  who  with  accents  mild 

And  eyes  so  blue,  so  full  of  tears. 
Bade  me  farewell,  but  could  not  heal 

The  deepening  wound  herself  had  made. 
Oh,  if  to  love,  were  to  be  loved 

Life's  sunshine  might  exceed  its  shade ! 

And  I  have  lived  my  life  away, 

I  will  not  deem  I  lived  for  naught; 
While  yet  thro'  memory  sunbeams  play, 

While  still  my  days  with  toil  were  fraught; 
Tho'  love  is  much  it  is  not  all. 

And  life  hath  yet  a  second  goal, 
And  manly  voices  loudly  call. 

And  work  is  worthy  of  the  soul ! 

And  I  have  worked  and  years  have  passed, 

My  time  of  peace  is  growing  near. 
I  oifered  first,  I  bring  at  last. 

My  all  of  manhood  to  you  here. 
Here,  'mid  the  scenes  where  we  have  played, 

Here  near  the  church  beside  the  yew, 
Where  first  we  wept,  laughed,  parted,  prayed, 

I  come  to  lay  life  down  by  you ! 


132;  The  Portrait. 

THE  PORTRAIT. 

TO  other  eyes  'tis  nothing  more 
But  just  a  girl's  fair  loving  face, 
In  which,  perchance,  they  read  a  trace 
Of  deeper  things  than  fashion's  lore. 

To  them  it  is  not,  as  to  me, 

A  volume,  full  of  life's  sweet  songs, 
A  chant  that  memory  prolongs 

Of  wildest  unreality, 

Filling  to  overflow  the  heart, 

A  life  within  the  life  I  hold, 

A  promise,  infinite,  untold 
Save  in  a  dream ;  I  could  not  part 

From  my  own  self,  but  I  should  pine 
As  one  in  darksome  dungeon  pent, 
Where  not  a  gleam  of  sun  was  lent, 

Where  not  a  single  star  could  shine ! 

All  have  such  treasures,  rich  to  each. 
Poor  to  the  world  that  cannot  know 
What  spirit  strains  of  music  flow 

From  unseen  strings,  a  gentle  speech 

Finding  its  goal  by  other  ways 

Than  through  the  dull  sense  of  the  ear; 
The  fancied  touch  of  lips,  how  dear! 

Oh !  memory,  the  enchanter  plays. 

And  thoughts  will  come  again,  again, 

'     Of  things  that  were,  or  would  have  been; 

The  little  mound  of  earth  grown  green 
Is  but  a  myth,  and  death  is  vain ! 

We  live  the  life  we  thought  to  live. 
We  feel  the  joy  we  should  have  felt, 
And  sorrows  like  the  snowflakes  melt, 

A  touch,  the  talisman  can  give 


Nancy,  133 

All,  all !  and  I,  I  see  thee  now, 

Glad  childish  faces  round  thy  chair, 

My  wife,  my  children,  all  are  there; 
They  come  to  me,  I  know  not  how. 

For  they  have  never  been !  she  died, 
The.  promised  sunlight  of  my  home, 
And  the  dark  shadows  round  me  come, 

In  place  of  her  the  wished-for  bride. 

Yet,  as  I  gaze  upon  this  token 

Of  that  deep  love  I  deem  not  lost. 

But  only  for  a  moment  crossed. 
The  dream  to  me  is  all  unbroken. 

I  live,  live  ever  in  the  hope. 
And  ever  seems  the  vision  true. 
As  when  we  gathered  flowers  that  grew 

Where  meadows  to  the  river  slope ! 


NANCY, 


As  wayward  and  wild,  as  fetterless  fancy. 
Dear  nature's  own  child  and  darling  sweet  Nancy. 
Like  a  beautiful  thought,  she  is  hovering  still. 
Yet  cannot  be  caught  strive  as  hard  as  you  will. 

Now  she  lures  with  a  smile,  now  rejects  with  disdain. 
And  hearts  worship  the  while  she  is  forging  their  chain; 
Oh !  she  fetters  them  all,  yet  her  own  she  keeps  free. 
And  away  she  starts  like  a  bird  or  a  bee, 

If  you  speak  but  of  love,  or  attempt  but  to  press 
Her  beautiful  lips,  for  she  will  not  confess; 
Oh !  she  will  not  confess  that  in  heart  or  in  fancy, 
One's  dearer  than  all  to  beautiful  Nancy. 


134  Like  the  Song's. 


LIKE  THE  SONGS. 

LIKE  the  songs  in  poet's  pages, 
Oh!  the  old  tale  still  seems  new; 
Hearts  repeat  it  in  all  ages, 

Eden's  love-tale  bright  and  true. 

They  repeat  it  as  in  spring  time, 
Nature's  legends  still  are  told 

By  the  primrose  and  the  wild  thyme 
And  the  daisy's  eye  of  gold. 

These  repeat  the  lore  of  beauty, 
With  creations  woof  inwove; 
Godlike  wisdom,  dying  never, 
And  the  man  and  woman  ever 
Still  repeat  the  tale  of  love. 

Thus  is  nature  ever  young, 
Like  a  maiden  lost  in  dreams; 

Listen,  still  a  bridal  song 

She  sings  her  woods  and  wilds  among, 
And  in  her  countless  streams. 

With  a  wisdom  never  failing. 
She  builds  the  forest  wide; 

With  a  splendor  never  paling. 
Come  the  day-star  and  the  tide, 

Comes  the  seed  of  every  flower. 
Comes  the  fruit  of  every  tree; 

And  man,  in  love  to  woman  bending, 
Each  fulfil  their  destiny. 


THE  HOLIDAY. 

UPON  the  threshold  of  the  man, 
He  but  a  disappointed  boy, 
Earnest  of  Hfe  not  yet  begun, 

Held  it  but  as  a  broken  toy; 
Full  of  a  growing  discontent, 

Half  foiled  and  weary  home  he  came. 
So  all  unlike  to  him  that  went 

Sure  of  success  in  life's  rich  game. 

He'd  dreamed  youth's  tinsel  dreams  of  pride 

Of  fame  and  honor  that  should  be, 
And  turning  from  the  world  aside. 

Vexed  at  their  unreality, 
He  sought  once  more  his  father's  home: 

Three  years,  long  years  of  toil  and  pain. 
Since  he  had  left  had  come  and  gone, 

And  he  was  standing  there  again. 

The  sunset  deepening  into  night. 

The  woods  and  meadows  lying  round, 
The  hymn  of  rest  and  fading  light 

Trembling  in  every  sound; 
The  village  everywhere  unchanged, 

The  stream  still  rippling  on  its  course, 
And  scenes  and  friends  so  long  estranged. 

And  love  came  back  with  tenfold  force. 

His  father's  house,  his  home  so  near 
Before  him  there — he  sees  the  gate. 


136  The  Holiday. 

And  is  it  nothing  to  be  dear, 

And  something  only  to  be  great  ? 

There  stands  the  oak  tree  by  the  door; 
There  has  he  never  asked  in  vain; 

He  pauses  but  a  moment  more, 
It  opens  to  him  once  again. 

His  eyes  are  all  suifused  with  tears, 

He  cannot  trust  his  tongue  to  speak, 
His  mother's  voice  is  in  his  ears. 

His  mother's  kisses  on  his  cheek; 
His  father's  hand  is  in  his  own, 

A  father's  love  is  in  the  grasp; 
And,  who  is  this,  the  woman  grown, 

Fearing  yet  longing  still  to  clasp  ? 

But  little  more  than  child  was  she. 

With  laughing  eyes  and  sunny  hair, 
Three  years  and  she  has  grown  to  be 

A  woman,  graceful,  tall  and  fair. 
Like  one  awaken'd  from  deep  sleep 

Wondering  if  all  he  sees  be  true, 
Striving  some  vision  still  to  keep, 

He  gazes  in  her  eyes  so  blue. 

To  him  she  has  been  still  the  child; 

Iji  letters,  when  he  read  her  name. 
Ever  the  face,  the  voice  so  mild 

Of  Alice  had  been  all  the  same. 
He  scarcely  thought  a  change  to  find. 

Perchance  a  little,  yet  not  much; 
And  lo !  the  woman  rich  in  mind. 

Who  made  his  heart  thrill  at  a  touch ! 

Twelve  years  ago  some  one  had  died. 
And  Alice  to  their  home  was  brought. 


The  Holiday.  137 

And  he  remembers  how  she  cried, 
And  still  with  childish  passion  fought. 

'Twas  on  a  cold  and  wintry  day, 

And  mother  wept  and  looked  so  sad, 

And  told  him  God  had  called  away 

Her  friends — and  they  were  all  she  had. 

And  he  must  love  and  comfort  her — 

His  own  eyes  filling  fast  with  tears — 
And  as  he  stands  beside  her  now 

The  scene  comes  back  from  out  the  years; 
Humbled  in  heart  with  cheeks  all  wet 

He  feels — to  comfort  is  not  mine, 
He  feels  his  mother's  kisses  yet. 

He  feels  their  arms  about  him  twine. 


n. 

Deep  mists  are  seen  at  morn  and  eve, 

The  harvest  all  is  gathered  up. 
The  night  a  crystal  splendor  leaves 

On  twig  and  leaf,  and  from  the  cup 
The  acorn  falls  unto  the  ground, 

And  all  the  trees  are  growing  bare. 
And  in  the  landscape  wide  around 

The  winter  meets  us  everywhere. 

The  few  remaining  leaves  are  all, 

Crimson  and  yellow  like  the  sky 
That  heralds  night,  in  showers  they  fall 

With  every  wind  that  passes  by; 
And  restless,  quivering  at  our  feet. 

They  change  their  happy  songs  of  June 
To  rustle,  rusde,  beat,  beat,  beat, 

Through  hedgerow  and  wood-path  thickly 
strewn. 
10 


138  The  Holiday. 

And  still  he  lingers  as  if  bound 

By  some  strong  spell  he  cannot  break, 
As  if  the  goal  of  life  were  found, 

And  lost  if  he  again  should  take 
A  farewell  of  his  home  and  friends; 

He  lingers,  then  again  would  go 
And  questions  of  his  life  the  ends, 

And  changes  as  the  winds  may  blow. 

He  wanders  musing  in  his  mind. 

And  nothing  settles  into  form; 
Comes  her  dear  face — Oh,  Alice  kind, 

Alice! — and  like  an  April  storm 
A  smile  makes  rainbows  in  his  tears; 

Oh!  if  she  love  me  I  will  stay; 
Then  rings  an  echo  in  his  ears, 

The  great  world  calls — I  must  away. 

Away  and  with  an  aching  heart, 

Leaving  behind  the  better  hope, 
Oh !  never  yet  did  man  so  part 

Love,  and  ambition  weak  to  cope 
Gives  way;  the  world,  the  voice  of  men, 

Their  praise,  their  censure  on  us  pall; 
We  love,  are  loved,  and  there  and  then 

A  touch  a  kiss  outbuys  it  all. 

He  could  not  go  but  he  would  speak, 

Would  ask  her  counsel,  ask  her  love; 
The  color  mounts  into  his  cheek 

And  swifter  all  his  pulses  move, 
"Oh!  should  she  love  me — should  she  not!" 

Even  he  doubts  his  worth  the  more. 
And  full  of  hope  and  hope  forgot. 

Change  follows  change,  thoughts  fly  before. 


The  Holiday.  139 

His  life,  his  happiness,  his  peace, 

Trifles  when  in  the  balance  set; 
Better  by  far  his  life  should  cease 

Than  on  her  brow  a  grief  be  set; 
Self  lost  beyond  the  realms  of  thought, 

Oh !  should  she  love — and  love  indeed ! 
And  all  his  life  the  fancy  caught, 

And  like  the  blossom  from  the  seed, 

A  thousand  visions  sweet  of  home. 

Of  children  and  of  Alice  wife, 
All  thronging  with  the  fancy  come. 

And  play  like  sunshine  through  his  life. 

III. 

Night  with  its  host  of  stars  comes  on, 

With  shadows  and  with  silence  deep, 
And  all  the  signs  of  life  are  gone, 

And  all  the  village  hushed  in  sleep; 
Save  but  the  low  song  of  the  wind, 

The  faintest  splashing  of  the  stream. 
Breaks  nothing  on  the  ear  or  mind. 

All  things  seem  molten  to  a  dream. 

"Oh!  Alice  !"  and  he  holds  her  hand; 

"Speak  to  me  Alice,  make  me  strong:" 
Alone  beneath  the  stars  they  stand, 

And  words  come  broken  from  his  tongue: 
"Alice,  I  purposed  to  return 

When  first  I  came,  long,  long  ere  this, 
Now  other  thoughts  within  me  burn. 

And  other  hopes — Oh !  let  me  kiss 

Thy  lips — for,  Alice,  in  my  heart 
Has  grown  a  richer  dream  than  fame 


140  The  Holiday. 

And  the  boy's  yearnings — all  apart 
To  my  own  ears  I  breathe  thy  name; 

And  as  the  sun  expels  the  shade, 
Life  wears  a  richer  hue  for  me, 

And  all  the  years  with  love  inlaid, 
Are  full  of  tender  imagery. 

I  dream — my  life  is  but  a  dream; 

Speak  Alice,  speak  and  bid  me  wake; 
Make  all  things  true  that  only  seem. 

Or  from  the  bough  the  blossom  shake; 
I  love  you — I  would  stay  or  go; 

Alice,  to  me  thy  love  is  more 
Than  all  my  words  can  say  or  show — 

Than  all  things  that  have  been  before. 

Shape  all  my  future  as  you  speak. 

Speak  Alice,  speak  to  eager  ears! " 
A  crimson  splendor  tinged  her  cheek, 

And  looking  through  a  mist  of  tears 
"  Not  mine,"  she  said,  "  it  is  not  mine 

To  bid  you  go  or  tarry,  still 
That  love  were  not  a  mate  for  thine 

That  left  you  aught  less  free  in  will. 

And  should  you  stay,  I  know  not 

But  other,  higher  hopes  would  rise, 
•  Not  dead  but  for  a  time  forgot, 

And  I  should  weary  in  your  eyes; 
And  you  are  young  and  I  am  poor. 

My  only  wealth  your  father's  care; 
To  thee  is  open  many  a  door, 

And  love  and  fortune  wait  you  there. 

Not  now— not  now — Edward,  not  now; 
I  must  not  take  what  you  would  give. 


The  Holiday.  141 

Nay,  look  not  with  that  anxious  brow, 
My  love  through  all  my  life  will  live; 

And  night  and  morning  in  my  prayers, 
And  all  day  long  and  all  the  night, 

My  life  with  thine  a  semblance  wears, 
Like  thine  my  heart  is  sad  or  light. 

But  selfish  were  my  love  and  blind, 

And  all  untrue  to  thee,  should  I 
Take  these  hot  words  with  which  you'd  bind 

Our  fates,  till  one  or  both  should  die; 
Go  when  you  will — or  go  or  stay, 

I  love  you,  but  I  may  not  hold 
Your  promise,  and  when  comes  the  day, 

Edward,  this  tale  is  all  untold. 

And  you  are  free — I  love  not  less, 

Not  less,  dear  Edward,  but  the  more; 
Still  shall  I  pray  to  God  to  bless 

Still  love  you  ever  as  before; 
And  when  the  days  and  years  have  grown. 

And  should  you  then  be  free  to  choose. 
And  should  you  woo  me  for  your  own, 

Edward,  I  shall  not  then  refuse." 

He  takes  her  fondly  to  his  heart: 

"Oh!  Alice,  Alice,  do  not  fear!" 
About  them  lies  a  world  at  rest, 

Above  them  shine  the  stars,  and  clear 
A  waning  moon  hangs  in  the  sky: 

"Oh!  Alice,  Alice,  not  in  vain, 
But  for  a  little  while  good  bye; 

I  go,  bat  I  shall  come  again." 


142  A  Gleam  fi'om  the  Past. 

A  GLEAM   FROM  THE  PAST. 

TOUCHED  \vith  a  soft  and  tender  grace, 
In  the  action,  the  word,  and  the  tone, 
He  looks  in  her  fair,  youthful  face. 
And  the  hard  lines  fade  from  his  own. 

Oh,  he  listens  with  eager  expectant  ears, 
He  answers  with  faltering  tongue; 

His  mind  is  busy  with  by-gone  years. 
That  come  like  the  echoes  of  song. 

Faint,  faint  sounds  in  the  distance  there 

Of  music,  passingly  sweet; 
And  the  long  past  wakes  in  its  lair, 

Aud  again  youth's  pulses  beat ! 

And  the  old  man,  no  longer  gray. 
Like  a  change  in  some  fairy  scene, 

From  the  present  has  wandered  away, 
And  the  days  come  back  that  have  been ! 

And  his  heart  leaps  up  once  more, 
A  moment  he  wakes  to  rejoice; 

And  his  being  thrills  to  the  core 
At  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice ! 

The  sound  of  her  voice,  and  her  smile, 
Death  relaxing,  yields  to  the  charms 

And  seems  to  restore  for  awhile 
A  dear  lost  form  to  his  arms! 

As  he  gazes  the  maiden  blushes 
All  rosy  and  red  as  she  stands; 

Nor  can  she  divine  why  he  offers 
His  withered  and  trembling  hands. 

"Like,  like!  so  like,"  he  murmurs, 
"  To  her  who  sleeps  under  the  ground; 

She  died  in  the  far-off  summers. 

But  I  started,  thought  she  was  found ! 


Lucy,  143 

*'  Found !  and  the  present  vanished  away, 

And  memory  loosened  its  hold." 
Tears  from  his  dim  eyes  stole  away 

As  he  whispered — "  Old,  old,  so  old  1 " 

*'God  bless  you!  Forgive  me,  forgive  me — 

Like,  so  like,  to  the  face  that  I  knew; 
Oh,  let  it  again  smile  on  me. 
For  the  fancy  seems  still  as  true ! 

"  Ah,  a  kiss,  from  the  lips  so  fair, 

And  the  vision  were  perfect  now!" 
And  the  maiden  stooped  by  his  chair 

And  she  kissed  his  wrinkled  brow! 


LUCY. 


LIKE  a  flower  in  motion, 
By  soft  sweet  breezes  stirred, 
Like  whispers  of  the  ocean, 

In  the  distance  heard. 
All  full  of  grace  and  beauty, 

All  full  of  music  wild, 
Is  the  mind  and  form  of  Lucy, 
Nature's  darling  child. 

A  day  that's  newly  breaking. 

O'er  earth  and  heaven  serene, 
A  flower  bud  sweetly  waking, 

From  its  long  wintry  dream. 
Are  charms  less  fair  than  Lucy, 

In  her  simple  dress, 
And  beauty  fast  expanding 

To  woman's  lovliness. 


144  Mary. 


MARY. 

WHEN  twilight  trembles  o'er  the  earth, 
And  night  resumes  her  reign, 
When  fancy  to  the  dead  give  birth, 

I  see  thy  face  again. 
It  has  not  lost  its  gentle  power 

To  soothe  the  soul  at  will; 
And  in  night's  holy,  silent  hour 
Thy  spirit  guideth  still. 

A  lightning-flash  the  pang  of  grief, 

Which  tells  me  thou  art  dead, 
The  vivid  misery  is  but  brief, 

I  turn,  thou  hast  not  fled. 
I  see  thee  on  hope's  tranquil  shore, 

On  memory's  golden  waves; 
To  where  life's  treasures  stream-like  pour 

From  times  rough  rocks  and  caves. 

And  on  me  smiles  thy  deep  blue  eye 

Calm  as  the  star  above, 
Pure,  fair  and  frail  mortality, 

Rich  with  immortal  love;  ^ 

I  cannot,  dare  not,  deem  thee  lost, 

Life,  heaven,  hope,  all  were  gone  1 
A  moment  parted  at  the  most, 

Thou  bidst  me  still  love  on. 

I  do,  I  do,  through  clouds  of  time, 

My  soul  springs  up  to  thee, 
And  on  me  dawns  the  bliss  sublime 

Of  immortality. 


D 


The  Letters.  145 

THE  LETTERS. 

EAD!  The  best  and  the  bravest  of  friends,  dead,  dead! 
Far  from  home !  No  kind  eye  to  watch  by  his  bed ! 
He  has  breathed  his  last,  and  with  no  one  near — 
None  to  help,  or  to  soothe,  or  to  whisper  of  cheer ! 

No  ear  to  catch  the  last  words  as  they  fell — 
He  has  gone!  and  his  letters — his  last  farewell — 
Have  reached  me,  with  blessings,  from  over  the  sea, 
And  with  one  for  her,  wherever  she  be! 

For  her!  by  his  brave  heart,  forever  at  rest, 
Which  she  flung  to  the  winds,  once  again  she'll  be  blest  1 
She'll  be  blest  by  a  love  which  she  knew  not  to  prize; 
Will  it  reach  to  her  heart?  Will  it  moisten  her  eyes ? 

Will  she  feel  it  ?     Last  night,  when  I  passed  the  farm, 
I  saw  her  all  smiles,  as  she  hung  on  the  arm 
Of  a  man — a  man  ?   The  word  seems  but  a  sneer, 
•As  I  picture  the  dead  one  still  living,  and  here 

In  the  strength  of  his  manhood — brave,  noble,  and  young; 
Light  leapt  from  his  eyes,  truth  flowed  from  his  tongue! 
And  this  fop  of  a  man,  scarce  seeming  a  part 
Of  God's  daylight  and  truth,  who  has  reached  to  her  heart 

With  his  clerical  drawl,  while  his  delicate  hands 
Bear  the  box  of  the  mission  to  Christianize  lands 
He  describes  so  degraded,  so  lost,  and  so  blind. 
As  he  narrows  God's  love  to  his  own  narrow  mind ! 

Oh,  the  heart  laid  to  rest,  ever  manlike  and  whole. 
Held  a  faith  all  too  wide  for  her  poor,  timid  soul; 
And  she  trembled  and  feared — the  child's  step  may  err, 
But  what  was  the  charm  that  so  bound  him  to  her  ? 


146  The  Letters. 

Oh,  I  see  him  again,  catching  light  from  her  eyes, 
While  his  broad,  manly  brow  is  bare  to  the  skies. 
As  he  speaks  of  his  love  and  his  hopes,  and  the  tears 
In  his  earnestness  rise  while  he  pictures  the  years; 

And  lays,  with  devotion  love  only  can  mete, 

All  his  fortune,  his  home,  and  his  heart  at  her  feet! 

Oh,  I  see  them !    They  stand  where  the  tree  forms  a  screen, 

While  the  dance  and  the  music  go  on  on  the  green! 

Oh,  I  see  them  come  forth!  There's  a  shade  on  his  brow; 
(The  deep  shadow  of  death  has  settled  there  now!) 
But  the  scene  in  the  twilight  flashes  back  on  my  brain, 
And  I  see  him — I  hear  him — He  speaks  once  again! 


And  the  twilight  still  deepens,  the  dances  go  on; 
He  has  eyes,  he  has  ears,  he  has  love  for  but  one; 
For  one  who  is  all,  and  yet  nothing,  and  gay — 
One  who  knows  not  the  prize  she  is  casting  away ! 

One  who  knows  not  the  worth,  or  the  depth,  or  the  truth 
Of  his  bounteous  love;  one  who,  full  of  her  youth. 
Is  yet  formal,  and  fashioned,  and  shaped  to  the  world ;       * 
Oh,  the  eyes  may  be  blue,  the  gold  locks  may  be  curled. 

But  the  heart  of  the  woman  to  answer  the  man — 
Not  the  sordid  or  vain,  but  God's  marvelous  plan 
Of  a  God  on  the  earth,  with  a  mind  and  a  will 
Strong  to  bear  and  forbear,  and  to  battle  with  ill — 

Is  wanting!     Blind,  blind!  for  t^  him  she  seemed 
All  the  light,  and  the  truth,  and  the  grace  that  he  deemed 
Was  the  woman's !     Ah  me !  but  the  secret  lies  deep. 
Who  knows  what  so  won  him  ?     I  cannot  but  weep 

For  the  friend  who  returns  not,  so  loved  and  so  lost, 
And  whose  life  by  her  fair  form  was  shadowed  and  crossed. 
Far  away,  he  sleeps  on — the  long  sleep  of  the  grave — 
Where  blue  skies  bend  over — where  tall  palms  wave ! 


Besm.         OFTHB  A.        147 

^  TJNIVERSITY  ^^ 


TO 

MYSTERY,  deepest  mystery  I 
The  poet  cannot  spell 
The  secret  of  his  history, 
Or  why  the  tale  befell. 

Thy  smile  can  make  a  fuller  day; 

Thy  coldness  turn  the  day  to  night; 
Thy  blue  eyes  in  their  gentle  play, 

Wake  deepest  pain  or  wild  delight. 


BESSIE. 

THOU  canst  not  know,  oh  gentle  heart! 
Aught  more  of  earth  or  our  distress, 
Thou  canst  not  strive  to  make  it  less 
By  mutely  bearing — thou  hast  played  thy  part. 

Oh,  gentle  form  bereft  of  speech  1 
Oh,  little  hand  so  cold  and  still! 
The  life  and  love,  and  living  will 

Are  ended  here.     God  measures  each 

One's  length,  we  live  so  long,  so  much 
We  bear,  and  then  we  pass  away 
Out  from  the  sunshine  and  the  day, 

Out  from  the  world  of  sight  and  touch. 

Out,  oh  1   not  out  of  hope  or  love. 

With  those  who  love  we  still  live  on, 
And  thou  sweet  child,  thou  art  not  gone! 

I  hear  thee  speak,  I  see  the  move. 

I  see  thee  shake  thy  curls  and  smile, 
I  see  thy  blue  eyes  fill  with  tears. 
True  thou  art  lost  unto  the  years — 

The  years  are  but  a  little  while. 


148  Helena. 


0 


HELENA. 

VER  eyes,  hearts,  souls,  at  will 

Sways  her  beauty,  magic,  skill. 
It  were  easier  far  to  break 
The  prison  chains  that  tyrants  make, 
Than  to  sever  those  she  holds 
By  fetters  forged  in  Nature's  moulds; 

By  charms  more  fell  than  Genii's  mind, 
Ere  wrought  of  old  man's  will  to  bind. 
Idol  of  youth's  first  sacrifice, 
Gleam  of  long  lost  Paradise! 
Oh!  beauty,  still  thy  toil  so  strong 


Might  lead  a  second  Adam  wrong 


In  her  full  bloom  and  blush  of  youth, 
Ah!  who  could  doubt  her  worth,  her  truth  1 
Far  easier  were  it  to  believe 
That  all,  aye  all  things  else  deceive, 
Than  that  such  eyes,  so  soft  and  blue. 
Were  yet  more  beautiful  than  true. 

As  easy  were  it  for  the  heart 

From  hope  to  tear  itself  apart, 

As  doubt  what  seemeth  written  there: 
"Ah!  she  is  good  as  she  is  fair," 
With  mind  as  pure  as  childhood's  mirth, 
Or  aught  that  lives  upon  the  earth. 

Such  is  beauty's  trusted  power; 

Beauty  to  her  is  heaven's  dower; 
And  all  who  look  upon  her  face, 
Where  sin  and  sorrow  have  no  trace; 
Where  time  hath  touched,  but  not  to  dull, 
]\Iust  think  her  good  as  beautiful ! 


The  Wanderers,  149 


THE  WANDERERS. 

DREARY  and  lone,  and  the  deep  winds  moan! 
At  her  feet  He  the  rotting  leaves; 
She  rests  on  the  road,  with  her  living  load 
And  a  cold  mist  round  her  cleaves. 

In  her  tattered  dress,  her  gaze  of  distress, 

Her  touch  on  the  little  one's  cheek, 
A  love  is  told,  that  song  cannot  hold 

And  a  grief  that  words  may  not  speak ! 

In  the  tender  grace,  in  the  tiny  face. 

That  gladdens  our  own  fireside; 
In  the  cradled  sleep;  in  the  eyes  that  keep 

A  watch;  in  the  mother,  the  bride. 

To  a  happier  tune,  the  same  deep  rune 

Of  a  woman's  life  is  set! 
But  mother  and  child,  'neath  the  hedgerow  wild, 

Are  mother  and  child,  tho'  cold  and  wet ! 

Is  her  history  known  ?  was  the  fault  her  own  .? 

Is  he  dead,  who  should  be  her  stay  ? 
Were  they  man  and  wife }  was  he  true  in  life  ? 

Did  he  kiss  her,  and  pass  away  ? 

We  know  not!  she  came,  tired  and  worn,  and  lame! 

And  painfully  sat  herself  down. 
Where,  in  summer's  heat,  the  glad  children  meet, 

On  the  bank  with  its  tall  oaken  crown ! 

The  little  one  pressed,  close,  close  to  her  breast, 

The  grief  and  the  love  in  each  eye, 
Of  a  cruel  wrong,  and  a  mother  young 

With  no  home,  save  the  pitiless  sky ! 


150  The  Wanderers. 

Sad,  and  forlorn !  had  they  killed  her  with  scorn  ? 

Christians,  and  mothers!  ah,  me! 
They  judge  and  condemn!  the  world  smiles  on  them: 

Know  they,  "the  greatest  is  charity?" 

Could  they  read  all  within,  were  they  without  sin  ? 

Did  they  slay  with  a  stony  stare  ? 
What  was  her  name  ?  whose  was  the  shame  ? 

Poor  child,  what  a  grief  was  there ! 

She  sat  in  the  rain !  the  cold  and  the  pain 

Of  a  breaking  heart  she  bore ! 
Tired,  weary  and  spent,  the  strength  was  not  lent 

That  would  reach  to  the  nearest  door ! 

And  the  wind  blew  loud,  and  the  angry  cloud, 

That  hung  frowning  above  her  head 
Seemed  ready  to  burst  o'er  the  land  accursed, 

Where  the  leaves  lay  scattered  and  dead. 

What  was  it  to  her  ?  she  did  not  stir, 

But  bent  to  shelter  her  child; 
Till  a  step  drew  near,  and  love  and  fear 

Cried,  "  save  us!  I  shall  go  wild ! " 

And  to  where  they  lay,  where  the  children  play, 
He  came, — the  young  and  the  strong, 

And  the  wanderers  both  in  his  arms  he  took. 
And  bore  them  with  him  along. 

To  his  mother's  home,  with  him  they  came. 

And  a  mother's  care  they  found; 
But  care  was  vain,  for  the  grief  and  rain 

Had  wrought  a  mortal  wound. 

They  buried  her  there,  where  the  flowers  so  fair 

Still  arrest  each  passer  by. 
Unknown  her  history,  all  is  mystery, 

Save  that  here  her  ashes  lie ! 


To  Mary.  151 

But  the  child  she  left,  of  her  love  bereft, 

(She  has  grown  into  girlhood  now). 
Is  the  loved  of  all,  and,  if  harm  should  fall, 

It  would  sadden  each  village  brow! 

For  none  in  the  place,  but  know  her  face, 

And  to  each  has  her  smile  grown  dear! 
And  flowers  that  grow,  where  her  mother  lies  low, 

Are  held  sacred  things  by  us  here ! 


TO   MARY. 

THE  first  love  of  youth  entwines  with  thy  name, 
'Twas  my  heart's  cry  then  when  I  struggled  for  fame 
I  breathed  it  in  hope,  I  sang  it  in  joy, 
Now  it  comes  with  a  dream  of  the  days  gone  by. 

Oh!  canst  thou  remember  those  hours  of  delight, 
When  together  we  strayed  'neath  the  shadows  of  night, 
When  the  boys  wild  picture  of  what  should  be, 
Brought  a  joy  to  her  who  was  all  to  me  ? 

Oh !  canst  thou  remember  the  star  so  bright. 

The  brightest  of  all  in  the  temple  of  night. 

We  called  it  our  own  and  gazed  as  it  shone, 

Till  our  hearts  and  our  hopes,  Ind  our  life  seemed  one. 

Oh!  canst  thou,  oh!  dost  thou  ever  in  dreams, 

In  the  night  when  with  shadows  fond  memory  teems, 

Behold  what  to  me  is  still  sacred  ground. 

That  home  and  the  woods  that  encircle  it  round } 

And  ah!  in  the  scene  fancy  sketches  in  air, 
Of  the  dear  old  spot  is  the  boy  still  there. 
When  thy  thoughts  to  the  past  all  silently  steal, 
Dost  thou  e'er  breathe  a  wish,  a  wish  for  his  weal 


52  Inevitable. 


TO   EMILY. 

THERE'S  a  smile  upon  thy  lips  and  such  brightness  in 
thine  e'e,  » 

As  when  a  sunbeam  slips  through  dark  leaves  on  the  tree, 
And  I  would  give  the  world  to  know  that  they  were  meant 
for  me. 

There's  a  fullness  in  thy  words  love  might  covet  for  his  own 
And  a  music  like  the  birds  in  each  clear  silvery  tone, 
Ah !  if  I  could  but  win  them  mine,  and  ever  mine  alone. 

But,  alas-!  I  cannot  spell  the  meaning  in  thine  eyes, 

And  like  murmurings  in  a  shell  still  I  hear  thy  low  replies, 

Ah!  but  the  hidden  meaning  beyond  my  searching  lies. 


INEVITABLE. 

WHOLE  joys  come  never  to  us 
To-morrow  as  to-day; 
Some  want  shall  still  undo  us, 

And  turn  our  gold  to  grey; 
The  boy  with  impulse  burning. 

The  girl  with  radiant  hope, 
Shall  meet  some  bitter  turning 

Adown  life's  glittering  slope. 
The  flowers  that  seem  to  strew  it 

Shall  die,  perchance,  of  drought; 
Or  the  fruit,  if  they  should  reach  it, 

Turn  dust  within  the  mouth. 
For  never  comes  the  pleasure 
That  we  with  hope  did  measure; 
And  fancy  finds  her  treasure 

But  dying  leaves  and  flowers 
That  wither  from  the  root,  or  grow,  not  to  be  ours. 


The  Word  Farewell.  153 


TO    NANCY. 

BONNY  Nancy!  blithesome  Nancy, 
Idol  of  my  heart  and  fancy, 
Like  a  lark  in  heaven  singing, 
Like  a  flower  in  summer  spring, 
Thy  voice  is  heard  thy  face  is  seen, 
And  gladnsss  comes  where  gloom  has  been. 
Like  a  sunbeam,  first  of  spring. 
Love  and  joy  and  life  to  bring. 
Love  and  joy  and  life  are  thine, 
Bonny  Nancy,  make  them  mine; 
With  thy  loving  words  and  tone. 
Make  them,  make  them,  all  my  own. 


THE  WORD   FAREWELL. 

PARTING  knell,  on  hope's  sweet  bell,  thy  accents  tell 
Of  heartstrings  broken; 
Cheeks  pale  with  fears,  eyes  dim  with  tears,  and  sorrowing 
years 

Of  grief  that  may  never  be  spoken. 

Thou  dirge  of  joys,  of  hope  that  flies,  and  love  that  dies, 

Thou  art  ringing,  ringing  ever 
The  solemn  knell,  the  mournful  spell,  the  long  farewell 

Of  things  returning  never. 

Music  of  sadness,  sigh  of  distress,  when  all  we  possess 

Of  love  from  the  heart  is  torn; 
Melodious  sound,  with  sorrow  crowned,  which  grief  has 
found 

To  breathe  to  those  we  mourn. 
II 


154  The  Word  Farewell. 

As  the  songs  we  sing,  and  the  flowers  we  bring,  when  sor- 
rowing 

We  lay  the  dear  one  to  rest. 
Are  sweetest,  fairest,  loveliest  and  rarest,  most  prized  and 
dearest 

Of  all  the  giver  possessed. 

So  is  the  sound  that  tells,  the  deepening  grief  that  dwells, 
in  the  heart  that  swells. 

As  it  severs  with  throbs  of  pain. 
'T  has  "a  dying  fall"  and  goes,  like  the  notes  which  rose, 
in  the  wood  at  daylight's  close ! 

•     Oh  I  'tis  the  saddest,  the  sweetest  strain. 
Farewell. 


A  Scene  of  Horror,  155 

A  SCENE  OF  HORROR. 

Note. — In  Santiago,  the  Capital  of  Chile,  in  the  year  1863,  at  the  commemora- 
tion or  feast  held  in  honor  of  some  one  of  the  different  names  given  to  the 
Virgin  Mary,  the  church,  more  like  a  theatre  than  a  place  of  worship,  was 
adorned  with  all  kinds  of  tinsel  and  trappings,  and  illuminated  nightly,  when 
letters  were  received  for,  and  supposed  to  be  answered  by,  the  Virgin  herself, 
and  many  other  wonders  of  a  like  nature  were  brought  to  pass.  Towards  the 
end  of  the  feast,  some  of  the  draperies  taking  fire,  the  confusion  of  the  con- 
gregation (all  women)  was  so  great,  and  the  help  or  control  of  the  priests,  if 
any  were  attempted,  so  ineffectual,  that  nearly  every  soul  in  the  church 
perished  in  the  flames,  and  the  building  itself  was  reduced  to  ashes.  Upwards 
of  two  thousand  are  said  to  have  lost  their  lives.  Upon  the  site  a  column  and 
statue  are  erected,  and  the  figure  is,  beyond  all  sculpture  pieces  I  have  ever  seen, 
a  marvel  of  expression.  Like  the  feeling  such  a  tale  must  create,  the  figure 
appears  not  to  have  been  slowly  cut,  but  to  have  leapt  into  being  from  the 
artist's  brain. 

A  SOLEMN  temple,  raised  to  the  high  God, 
And  full  of  worshipers !     Hark  to  that  scream ! 
Oh  Christ,  what  horror!  Fire — flames,  that  rob 
The  stars  of  brightness,  burst  from  every  beam ! 
Wives,  mothers,  sisters,  perish  in  that  gleam. 
Bright,  beautiful  they  left  their  homes  this  night, 

Full  of  religious,  holy  hope  and  dream, 
And  there  they  perish  in  the  frenzied  sight 
Of  husbands,  lovers,  brothers — powerless  against  such  might. 

A  temple  yesterday,  with  gold  and  flowers 
And  saints  and  virgins  glittering  to  behold; 

A  place  where  Rome  exerted  all  her  powers 
To  fascinate  the  minds  of  young  and  old 
With  signs  from  heaven,  and  miracles  not  cold. 

Deeds  of  to-day  by  Holy  Virgin  wrought 
Were  there  said  to  be  passing;  and  the  hold 

This  took  upon  the  public  mind  had  brought 

Thousands  to  see  and  hear  Rome's  priests,  who  boldly 
taught 

This  falsehood  in  the  face  of  God  and  man ! 

The  altar  with  a  thousand  lights  was  lit. 
From  column  unto  column  glowing  ran 


156  A  Scene  of  Horror. 

Such  tinsel  trappings  as  perchance  were  fit 

To  grace  some  pantomime,  not  holy  writ, 

Nor  altars  raised  to  Christ,  the  pure,  the  wise, 

The  simply  beautiful,  whose  words  so  knit 

Man's  'life  in  God's  as  makes  the  soul  to  rise, 

And  in  religion's  name  false  acts  and  arts  despise. 

Not  man's  to  judge  a  brother  for  his  creed, 

But  it  is  man's  to  bid  the  liar  hush. 
Who  clouds  heaven's  truth  deserves  to  bleed, 

And  it  is  right  in  self-defense  to  crush 

Whoso-  shall  trade  on  ignorance,  and  to  brush 
The  webs  of  fiction  they  would  weave  around 

Our  sacred  names  w'ith  them  into  the  slush 
And  slime  of  hell;  to  cleanse  the  holy  ground 
That  purer  men  may  speak  and  publish  truths  profound. 

A  church,  a  ruin  and  a  hecatomb; 

A  bank  of  simple  flowers  and  leafy  trees; 
A  marble  statue,  motionless  and  dumb, 

But  not  expressionless,  the  gazer  sees 

Upon  that  site,  and  feels  his  blood  to  freeze. 
The  agony,  the  wild  heart-rending  groan; 

A  nation's  cry  floats  by  him  in  the  breeze 
As  he  behold^  that  figure  fierce  and  lone; 
That  concentrated  horror  there  transfixed  in  stone. 

A  milder  mind  perchance  had  made  it  weep, 

Or  children  pray  above  the  fearful  spot, 
A  scene  like  that  for  tears  was  all  too  deep; 

The  culminating  point  of  terror,  not 

A  tale  of  gentle  suffering,  but  a  blot 
Upon  that  Church  that  plays  with  pomp  and  glare 

To  make  believe  it  is  what  it  is  not! 
That  supplicating  figure's  wild  despair 
To  heaven  appeals  against  such  Christless  prayer! 


ALL-SOULS. 

Note. — This  day  (the  second  of  November) ,  simply  In  its  outwai'd  observances 
is  in  Catholic  countries  where  the  cemetery  is  well  kept,  a  touching  sight.  The 
graves  are  adorned  with  flowers  and  wreaths,  and  the  mourners  kneel  beside 
them,  while  a  mass  is  chanted  in  the  chapel.  The  day  is  instituted  by  the 
Church  to  pray  the  condemned  souls  out  of  purgatory.  The  Church  only  prays 
for  such  as  have  left  no  relations  behind  them;  to  such  as  have,  it  becomes  the 
duty  of  those  relations,  and  they  are  thus  exhorted  to  the  task  in  the"  Christian 
year:"  "Nothing  can  compare  with  the  pains  of  souls  in  purgatory.  You 
would  feel  for  your  worst  enemy  in  such  a  place,  yet  those  who  burn  in  this 
red  hot  oven  are  your  friends,  your  brothers,  the  nearest  and  dearest  relations 
you  have  known  in  life,  and  they  are  burning  and  suffering  because  you  are 
selfish  and  mean,  and  would  amass  riches  for  yourselves  upon  earth,  in  the 
place  of  causing  masses  to  be  said  for  their  souls.  Is  it  possible  you  will  not 
make  an  effort  for  them?  They  can  only  pay  their  debt  to  God  by  suffering 
the  last  rigor  of  their  sentence;  but  you  may  satisfy  Him  for  them  at  a  trifling 
cost  to  yourselves,  by  an  oration,  a  mass,  a  mortification.  By  such  means  you 
may  liberate  them  altogether,  and  they,  in  their  turn,  having  ascended  to 
heaven,  will  plead  for  you  at  the  throne  of  God;  and  who  knows  wh^t  they 
may  not  achieve,  in  the  way  of  salvation  for  your  souls."  No  Protestant  can 
be  buried  in  a  Catholic  Cemetery.  To  such  an  extent  is  this  feeling  carried  in 
the  Catholic  countries  of  South  America,  that  bodies  have  been  exhumed,  and 
cast  out  from  the  churches  and  the  grounds.  A  man  is  not  a  Christian  until 
baptised  by  the  Church  of  Rome.  Those  only,  who  have  lived  where  Catholi- 
cism has  undisputed  sway,  can  form  a  just  idea  of  its  intolerance.  In  Ecuador, 
under  the  dictatorship  of  Garcia  Moreno,  the  nineteeeth  might  well  have  passed 
for  the  fourteenth  century.  No  book  could  be  brought  In  without  the  approval 
of  the  bishop;  and  no  religion  was  or  is  tolerated  but  that  of  Rome. 

ALL-SOULS.     The  dead  of  every  age  and  clime; 
Pause  and  conceive  how  vast  a  theme  is  here! 
Let  thy  thought  range  throughout  recorded  time 
And  thence  return  unto  this  last  made  bier! 
What  wealth  of  passion,  pleasure,  pain,  hope,  fear, 
Of  highest,  lowest,  noblest,  best  and  worst. 

Worshiped,  despised,  condemn'd,  and  treasured  dear, 
Is  in  that  dark  unknown  in  silence  hearsed, — 
Death's  solemn  mystery,  wherein  no  Sage  is  versed. 


158  All- Souls. 

All-Souls.     This  day  man  dedicates  to  them ! 

Whence  and  what  are  they  ?     In  our  minds  they  live 
As  some  refined,  pure,  priceless  spirit  gem, 

Where  pain  can  touch  them  not,  nor  sorrow  give 

Another  pang,  and  where  like  bees  they  hive 
With  equal  souls  in  some  bright  state  of  being; 

But  when  we  deeper  in  the  mystery  dive, 
These  images,  that  come  from  want  of  seeing. 
Must  pass,  as  shadows  from  day's  sunlight  fleeing. 

For  greater  is  the  soul  when  striving  greatly; 

A  sweet,  blank,  blissful  calm,  and  nothing  more 
To  those  strong  spirits  that  on  earth  so  stately 

Plann'd,  thought,  sung,  built,  and  sailed  from  shore  to 
shore, 

Achieving,  striving  and  not  giving  o'er 
Till  life's  last  hour  was  here  completely  told. 

Souls  God-inspired  and  Godlike  to  the  core, 
That,  spite  of  earth's  decay,  were  never  old. 
But  went  as  first  they  came,  determined,  brave  and  bold. 

Can  souls  like  these  sing  just  one  simple  tune, 

Changeless  and  sweet  as  twitter  of  some  bird 
That  in  the  leafy  month  of  sunny  June 

Pipes  out  its  life  unheeded  and  unheard  ? 

Ah  no!  by  innate  influence  moved  and  stirred, 
Living  they  reach  to  higher  heights  and  power, 

To  higher,  not  to  lower  life  transferred; 
In  time  and  in  eternity  the  dower 
Of  mind  expands  bring  the  perfect  flower. 

Here  mid  the  graves  of  those  who  lived  and  toiled, 
Pause  and  reflect!     The  forms  that  rot  below, 

Wasted  by  time  and  by  diseases  soiled. 
Blending  with  nature  yet  again  will  grow 
To  newer  life  in  newer  form,  and  show 


All- Souls.  159 

That  matter  working  from  within  can  weave 

Itself  to  shapes  of  things  that  live  and  know; 
And  in  the  spirit  world  we  musl  believe 
That  souls  shall  wake  anew,  to  strive,  if  not  to  grieve. 

But  turn  we  from  such  speculations  vain. 

All  souls  are  lost  in  God,  and  human  sight 
Shall  see  them  not,  and  know  them  not  again 

Through  the  swift  changes  of  our  day  and  night; 

Yet  o'er  their  graves  love  hangs  with  fond  delight, 
And  memory  treasures  still  a  lasting  prize. 

Blest  is  such  sorrow,  in  its  shado\vy  light 
The  lost  still  move  and  live  in  fadeless  guise, 
All  palpable  to  that  which  in  us  never  dies. 

Here  consecrated  to  yon  city's  dead 

Crosses  and  mounds  and  marble  forms  are  placed; 
And  here  to-day  with  reverence  shall  tread 

Death's  yet  uncalled,  and  things  mute  be  laced 

With  flowers  and  leaves,  and  living  love  be  traced 
In  hearts  and  eyes  that  see  what  is  not  there. 

Affection's  gaze  beholds  the  sleeping  face. 
And  soul  meets  soul  in  yearning  and  in  prayer. 

The  spirit  is  not  bound  to  time  or  place, 

And  deathless  longing  love  with  magic  power  is  graced. 

Here  pause  we  then,  and  lo!  the  mourners  come. 

Watch,  and  each  grave  shall  grow  a  history 
To  some  one  heart,  though  to  the  others  dumb; 

And  deeper  than  night's  starry  mystery 

Shall  penetrate  the  soul  that  cannot  see 
Behind  that  veil,  but  feels  its  love  and  loss, 

And  weeps  anew  for  poor  mortality; 
Kneels  with  the  dead,  and  by  that  symbol  cross 
Trusting  that  dream  is  true,  since  life  is  bitter  dross. 

Old  age  and  youth,  each  burdened  with  like  thought. 
Strange  are  the  ways  of  God,  who  gives  and  takes 


1 6o  All-Souls. 

By  some  deep  lore  unfathomable,  yet  wrought 
So  fast  in  nature  that  death  often  makes 
What  to  poor  human  wisdom  were  mistakes. 

The  stay  of  age,  the  guide  of  youth  must  fall; 
While  he  who  hath  not,  or  who  perhaps  forsakes 

Such  sacred  duties,  overliveth  all, 

And  hears  not  till  long  years  the  fatal  trumpet  call. 

Who  shall  explain  ?     'Tis  faith  must  guide  us  here; 

Not  ours  the  skill,  nor  ours  the  strength  to  know 
The  subtle  workings  of  the  plant  or  sphere; 

Even  from  the  highest  to  the  thing  most  low 

'Tis  mystery  still;  but  ever  do  they  show 
A  great  design,  a  spirit  vast  and  good. 

To  whose  strong  majesty  we  have  to  bow; 
That  hath  not  and  that  may  not  be  withstood, 
Nor  would  the  wise  of  heart  resist  it  if  they  could. 

Sad  is  such  loss,  a  bitter,  bitter  pain 

And  desolation  wild  and  deep  have  been 
And  will  be  felt  again  and  yet  again 

In  many  a  broken  life,  that  shall  be  seen 

To  haunt  one  spot,  one  little,  mound  of  green, 
Where  tender  love  is  laid  to  sleep  in  earth; 

A  love  which  left  no  equal  here,  I  ween. 
For  that  poor  wanderer.     In  the  heart's  great  dearth 
Death  comes  in  life,  and  life  pains,  even  as  hollow  mirth. 

Pause  here,  and  see  where  shameless  priests  who  play 

Religion's  game  as  if  they  held  from  God 
Power  to  condemn  or  bless  man's  lifeless  clay, 

Have  dared  divide  death's  universal  sod; 

And  this  is  Catholic,  by  the  blessed  trod. 
Enter  and  you  shall  find  like  passions,  pains, 

And  griefs  and  sufferings  from  the  self-same  rod; 
Yet  they,  with  litde  hearts  and  shallow  brains, 
Dare  offer  to  these  souls  a  larger  share  of  gains 


All- Souls.  i6i 

In  God's  grand  heaven;  turn  we  from  the  theme. 

All  creeds  and  all  religions  end  in  Him. 
However  wild,  strange,  high  or  low  the  dream, 

However  bright  and  clear,  or  dark  and  dim, 

Man's  soul  in  hope  may  shadow  forth  its  hymn 
Of  praise,  thanks,  fear  and  reverence  divine. 

He  knows  who  gave  the  power;  to  Him 
The  Indian's  cry,  the  savage's  harsh  whine, 
Are  one  with  Mahomet's  prayer  and  Milton's  song  sublime. 

***  ***  **;K 

All-Souls;  the  great  and  little  ones  of  earth; 

Kings,  beggars,  poets,  statesmen,  savage,  slave, 
All  that  have  owed  in  time  a  human  birth; 

All  who  have  made  this  passage  to  the  grave; 

Murderers  and  thieves,  and  lunatics  that  rave; 
The  good,  the  bad,  the  wise  and  nobly  pure; 

We  pray  for  all,  they  were  as  nature  gave 
The  power  to  be;  and  while  time  shall  endure 
God's  meaning  in  such  fates  to  man  remains  obscure. 

All  would  be  great  and  ggod,  if  that,  might  be, 

All  would  be  happy  and  content  in  life; 
Nor  stoop  to  crime  nor  writhe  in  misery. 

Nor  soil  their  soul  with  low  and  sordid  strife. 

But  who  can  choose  his  fate .?     A  lesson  rife 
With  many  thoughts  that  ever  end  in  one. 

The  great  unfathomable  first  cause  of  life. 
The  meaning  of  this  world  the  sun  shines  on. 
Its  myriads  yet  to  come,  and  those  its  myriads  gone. 

Bid  some  poor  wretch  be  Shakspeare,  and  so  make 
The  world  pay  homage  to  his  noble  mind. 

Be  anything  but  what  he  is,  and  shake 

With  cold  and  hunger,  houseless  in  the  wind. 
Nature  is  full  of  beauty  and  is  kind 


1 62  All-Souh. 

To  those  who  bow  beneath  her  gentle  sway, 

And  poetty  exhaustless  he  may  find 
In  men  and  stars  and  in  the  night  and  day; 
Why  is  he  shivering  thus,  choking  the  public  way  ? 

Why  is  he  not  some  lord  with  large  estates  ? 

Or  some  strong  man,  with  sinews  fit  for  toil  ? 
Whence  comes  it,  and  what  crime  is  this  of  fates  ? 

For  what  misdeeds  is  he  condemned  to  coil 

About  his  wasted  form  those  rags  ?     The  soil 
He  treads  is  God's,  and  freely  given  to  all. 

Alas!  in  Nature's  deep  and  grand  turmoil 
Such  histories  within  our  sight  befall. 
We  see,  but  scarcely  heed,  and  yet  they  might  appal. 

The  bravest  spirit  and  the  wisest  brain. 

Who  dares  be  proud  of  intellect  or  wealth  ? 
Behold  that  wretch,  then,  turn  and  think  again. 

He  poor  and  weak,  and  thou  rich  and  in  health; 

See  where  he  creeps  along  as  if  by  stealth; 
He  held  his  place  amid  God's  day  and  night. 

Ask,  then,  thyself  why  intellect  and  pelf 
Were  givjsn  to  thee,  and  by  what  self-won  right 
To  thee  comes  joy  and  hope,  and  love,  and  sweet  delight. 

Ask  and  be  humbled.  Pray  for  these,  and  feel 
That  not  in  words,  but  in  each  act  and  deed 

Man's  life  should  be  a  prayer,  and  seek  to  heal 
Such  pain  and  suffering,  and  to  sow  the  seed 
Of  hope  in  hearts  that  know  so  great  a  need. 

Oh,  high  in  intellect  and  high  in  place, 
Be  gentle,  kind,  and  take  the  fullest  heed 

Of  these  sad  forms  that  seem  but  to  deface 

God's  grand  creation  and  the  day's  bright  face. 

By  His  will  are  they  here,  and  throughout  life, 
Though  feebly  felt  by  man,  some  meaning  grows. 


All-Souls.  163 

Unto  the  wise  and  great  in  this  world's  strife 
Comes  compensation  for  the  toils  and  throes, 
That  by  their  innate  natures  round  them  dose; 

Since  they  can  work,  work  bears  a  certain  joy, 
But  these  poor  wretches,  with  their  hungry  woes, 

Their  hopeless  struggle  up  to  man  from  boy 

Amid  the  haunts  of  crime,  where  want  and  care  destroy. 

Is  hope  for  these  or  for  that  sister  soul 

Who  shares  such  fate,  and  knows  no  fall  or  rise  ? 
What  mortal  dare  be  judge  upon  the  whole 

Of  suffering  life  that  throbs  beneath  the  skies  ? 

While  peerless  help,  and  such  as  God  may  prize 
The  meanest  hands  to  meanest  wants  may  give. 

From  vanity  and  pride  awake!  arise! 
And  in  the  light  of  full  creation  live. 
And  know  no  best  or  worst,  since  God  alone  can  give. 

Or  best  or  worst,  and  it  is  to  blaspheme 

To  hold  those  lost  who  here  from  first  to  last, 
In  ignorance  and  their  gaunt  misery,  seem 

Forced  by  some  fate  to  tremble  at  each  blast. 

What,  when  man's  longest  span  of  life  is  past, 
Are  his  few  years  to  vast  eternity  ? 

Poor  shadow  of  an  hour,  dare  he  forecast 
Life's  horoscope  in  God's  infinity, 
Or  stain  with  one  foul  thought  creation's  full  divinity 

Is  man  but  flesh,  a  thing  that  must  decay? 

And  is  his  be  all,  and  his  end  all  here  ? 
What  profanation  to  the  grand  display 

Of  stars  and  suns  that  light  him  to  his  bier, 

And  to  those  minds  that  carol  in  his  ear 
Visions  of  things  beyond  time's  low  estate, 

And  to  his  mind  that  whispers  still  of  cheer, 
And  bids  him  hope  and  ever  be  elate; 
The  not  to  be  is  false,  to  he  is  still  man's  fate. 


164  All-Souls. 

Life  stains  not.     No!  It  is  the  radiance 

Of  that  eternity  that  calmly  glows 
In  heaven's  high  dome,  and  without  variance 

Shines  from  the  heart  that  hath  no  fear,  but  knows 

God  in  itself  as  Christ  divinely  shows! 
Oh  Christ !  thou  greatest  soul !  when  shall  it  be 

That  each  who  in  Thy  temple  lowly  bows, 
Shall  leave  his  fancies  vain  and  come  to  Thee 
A  simple  child  in  faith,  hope,  love  and  purity  ? 

Not  with  a  name,  a  bauble,  or  a  text, 

A  creed,  a  sect,  a  vision  still  apart 
From  God's  great  universe,  changed  by  the  next 

Who  bows  to  thee,  but  with  a  full,  true  heart, 

Christ-like,  not  Christian,  with  a  timid  start 
At  name  of  those  who  use  a  different  form 

To  worship  Him  of  whom  all  make  a  part, 
But  with  a  spirit  doubt  cannot  deform. 
That  knows  all  things  are  His,  down  to  the  meanest  worm. 

Both  His  and  Thine,  Lord  Christ!  our  second  God, 
Our  lord  of  mind,  of  faith  and  hope  and  trust, 

The  world  's  more  sacred  since  Thy  feet  have  trod 
Amongst  us,  and  no  longer  are  we  dust, 
Although  man  must  be  still  the  thing  he  must — 

A  being  far  below  Thy  perfect  man. 
Yet  is  it  something  to  wipe  off  the  rust, 

The  spirit  degradation  that  then  ran 

Deep  in  his  nature  when  Thy  work  began. 

All-Souls.     Lord  Christ,  to  Thee,  the  king  of  these, 
Thou  wise  and  sweet,  pure  shepherd  of  Thy  flock, 

Who  sought  its  safety,  not  Thy  gentle  ease; 
Who  founded  hope  upon  its  highest  rock; 
Thou  more  than  mortal,  who  withstood  the  shock 

Of  strong  temptation,  insult  and  disdain. 


AU-Souls,  165 

All-Souls  we  dedicate  to  Thee,  but  mock 
Ourselves  and  the  great  God,  by  quibbles  vain, 
By  Romish  arrogance,  and  protests  still  profane  1 

Sunshine  and  rain  and  Thy  bright  loving  words 

We  find  at  one  with  Him  who  freely  showers 
Upon  each  creed  and  race  and  the  wild  herds 

From  hands  o'erflowing  rich  and  welcome  dowers; 

But  men  misusing  their  divinest  powers. 
And  in  Thy  name,  oh  Christ!  on  earth  declare 

For  one  poor  sect  bloom  God's  immortal  flowers; 
That  Thou  wilt  hear  no  other  voice  in  prayer. 
Condemning  all  besides  to  darkness  and  despair. 

Oh  Thou  man  God  divine !  compared  to  Thee 
Poor  human  wisdom,  intellect  and  worth, 

Virtue,  truth,  valor,  love  and  purity, 

Sink  into  nothingness.     The  teeming  earth 
That  ever  still  to  fruit  and  flower  gives  birth 

Is  likest  Thee.     Each  word  of  Thine  doth  bless; 
A  mother's  fadeless  love  that  knows  no  dearth 

Is  likest  Thine;  yet  even  this  is  less; 

Her  love  's  her  son's,  but  Thine  doth  every  form  caress. 

What  are  the  great  of  earth,  the  mighty  names 

Of  Shakspeare,  Washington,  and  many  more  ? 
Winners  were  they  in  some  Olympic  games; 

Champions  of  thought  upon  a  single  shore. 

But  Thou,  oh  perfect  soul !  that  didst  adore, 
Live,  sufler,  teach,  feel,  see  but  truth  alone. 

Canst  conquer  still  with  words  of  gentlest  lore. 
And  in  all  climes  and  under  every  zone, 
Thy  love  and  purity  and  truth  have  found  no  equal,  none. 

What  are  the  mountains  of  the  world,  though  high. 

Compared  to  that  sweet  mountain  graced  by  Thee, 
Andes  or  Himalaya's  peaks  ?     The  sky 


1 66  All-Souls. 

Is  still  above  them,  their  sublimity 

Is  of  the  earth,  and  all  their  majesty. 
Thine  reaches  up  to  heaven  and  lights  a  world, 

Reflecting  rays  of  God's  infinity. 
Not  clouds  but  truths  divine  around  it  curled, 
A  haven  for  all  souls,  a  throne  from  which  is  hurled 

Sorrow  and  sin  and  every  wrong  in  life; 

A  place  of  rest  to  those  who  mourn  and  weep; 
A  spotless'  home  within  a  world  of  strife, 

Where  minds  o'erburdened  find  refreshing  sleep, 

And-  loving  words  to  soothe  the  heart,  and  steep 
Man  in  such  hopes  as  may  not  yield  to  fear; 

Imparting  strength  the  onward  march  to  keep. 
Knowing  that  God  and  heaven  are  always  near. 
And  spite  of  clouds  below,  that  there  above  is  clear. 

Then  from  this  mount  pass  we  to  that  on  which 

The  story  ends.     Bow  heads,  hearts,  souls,  bow  down; 
Who  here  dare  be  or  great,  or  good,  or  rich, 

Bow  to  that  bleeding  form  and  mocking  crown; 

Bow  while  a  dark'ning  universe  doth  frown; 
Bow  to  a  form  and  mind  that  knew  to  fill 

Life's  darkest  depths  with  hope  and  pure  renown; 
With  worship  purer  than  earth's  purest  rill, 
And  in  thy  heart  and  soul  all  lower  passions  still. 

Here  at  the  foot  of  this  last  symbol  lie, 

And  let  thy  thoughts  go  forth  to  one  and  all, 
To  every  man  in  Christ-like  sympathy; 

To  those  who  rise  and  unto  those  who  fall. 

No  sect  or  creed  is  here,  love  void  of  gall. 
And  help  to  those  who  need  from  it  do  come, 

And  none  in  vain  upon  that  help  shall  call. 
Here  pray  we  for  All-Souls  in  their  true  home 
In  Christ's  great  Church,  more  Catholic  far  than  Rome. 


It 


V. 


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((  UNIVERSITY 


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